


The Courtship of Dorian Pavus

by bioticbootyshaker, Defira



Series: The Unexpected Involvement of Love [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a torrid encounter in a storm that surprised them both,  Dorian and Cullen have agreed to test the waters and see if there's something more between them than just unbridled lust. Neither of them, however, have ever attempted a serious relationship before, and the road ahead of them is rocky enough as it is without adding a courtship into the mix- demons, dragons, the end of the world... oh, and dancing. Facing the threat of an undead magister with delusions of godhood almost looks easy in comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His first gift, a secret

To be completely honest, Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what a proper courtship entailed. 

Oh, he knew in _theory_ of course- he’d read enough adventure tales as a boy, where the dashing knight served loyally under the princess mage, bringing her flowers and slaughtering her enemies for her, like any good magister desired and which of course encouraged copious amounts of swooning on her part at his feats of valor. He’d been to the theatre in Minrathous and seen the dramatically overblown productions of lovers torn apart by feuding houses, politics thwarting their romance, and their desperate attempts to communicate through secret letters passed between slaves, dabbed with perfume and awash with flowery declarations of romantic love that seemed far too extravagant to be practical, and yet he found himself inexplicably touched by it all the same. 

A relationship, as far as he had seen in practice, was borne out of two things- desperation or practicality. The former was what fuelled the gossip mills of the capital, rumors of illicit trysts and scandalous affairs, lords with a dozen mistresses while their wives kept a dozen more of their own. Desperation was the basis for the handful of carnal encounters he’d accomplished throughout the years, secretive and lustful, something that one got out of one’s system in a darkened bedroom before dawn, or behind a locked door at a party. The latter was what the great nation of Tevinter was founded upon, the purification and distillation of bloodlines that could be traced back almost to the birth of the empire itself, thousands upon thousands of years of carefully planned breeding in the hopes of one day creating the perfect mage. Practicality ensured that a relationship was established for the sake of politics, and power, and the promise of glory as the parent of a future Archon. 

Love was a poor loser in both scenarios. 

So at Cullen’s noble insistence that he intended to _court_ him, as if their foolish night together in a storm warranted such a painfully honorable response in the first place, Dorian found himself rather perplexed.

What did a courtship _mean_ to a southerner, exactly? Was Cullen... well, he’d already proclaimed himself unconcerned with their being seen together in public together, as if it _wasn’t_ something to panic about and flinch at the smallest gesture that could be misconstrued by watching eyes. And yet, just because the taboo surrounding their burgeoning relationship did not exist in this part of the world did not mean that scandal would not follow. After all, Cullen had spent many years serving as a templar, and had hardly come out of the order an innocent; Dorian, for all that he tried to convince the world otherwise, was written off as just another power-hungry magister, blood magic quite literally dripping from his fingertips. He wasn’t blind to the fact that just because the idea of two men together was acceptable here didn’t mean that _he and Cullen_ together was considered acceptable. 

And yet... Cullen seemed blissfully unaware of the social and political ramifications of them _courting_ \- blasted blighted man, even thinking the word made him blush- and had been nothing but true to his word. One foolish night together in a storm it might have been, but Cullen at least seemed determined not to leave it at that. 

Although if Cullen tried to woo him with a herd of goats or some other barbaric local custom, he’d... damn it, he couldn’t even say honestly that he’d be annoyed at that. If he looked out of his window at Skyhold to see Cullen staring hopefully up at him from the courtyard with a dozen fat goats milling around him and chewing on his coat, he’d at least get a laugh out of it before he died of embarrassment. 

There was a book open on his lap, but if anyone had walked up to him at that moment and asked him to reiterate the last chapter, he wouldn’t have had a clue what they were talking about. His thoughts were entirely taken up by a certain blond haired swordsman and the spectacle he’d put on earlier that morning, walking around the main courtyard shirtless and sweat-slicked as he helped with clearing the rubble blocking the archways. Dorian wanted to say his admiration had solely been for the fact that it was a noble thing to do, throwing just as much of himself into the restoration efforts as he expected from his soldiers, and that he found that remarkably altruistic and honorable. 

It wasn’t completely a lie, of course, he honestly did find Cullen’s efforts for the greater good both unselfish and considerate. That did not, however, mean that he couldn’t appreciate the way the sweat glistened on his bare back, or the way his muscles flexed and bulged with the strain of shifting the broken masonry away from the paths, or the way the effort played havoc with his hair and left it a damp, curled mess against his head. 

He didn’t know whether to attribute the few times Cullen had appeared to stop and stretch provocatively to his own overactive imagination, or whether Cullen had been aware of his audience and intended to taunt him. 

He didn’t know what to make of any of it, honestly. Courting and honesty and relationships and what not; he felt alternatively ecstatically giddy to the point of making himself nauseous at the saccharine sweetness of it all, to utterly panicked to the point of wanting to lock himself in his safety of his quarters away from curious eyes. It had been a week and a half since he’d rescued Cullen from his own stupidity in the midst of the blizzard, a week and a half since the small space of the tent and short tempers had led to them bickering and confessing their attraction and then thoroughly ravishing one another under the cover of the storm. Even the memory alone was enough to make him shiver, his cock half hard in his pants, and although the library was not particularly crowded in the middle of the afternoon, he was grateful for the book across his lap. 

The sex made sense to him- everything that had followed after, however, did not. 

Cullen had been attentive. Gentle. Affectionate, even, and he’d never pressed him for attention in public in the days since, knowing Dorian’s skittishness with open displays of affection. Even more so, he’d been polite and friendly company, discreet in not spending vast amounts of time in his presence- he’d joined him for meals, walked with him during the last few stages of the trek to their new home, and left the occasional note for him in peculiar places, all the more for Dorian to wonder how in the Void he’d manage to secrete them away without him noticing him as he’d done it. He’d gone out of his way to maintain their pre-tryst friendship, joking with him and chatting to him about mundane things of no consequence, challenging him to frustratingly difficult games of chess that had taken him by surprise and forced him to resort to cheating (because _Maker help him_ , he refused to outwitted so easily in a game of intellect). 

And more importantly, they hadn’t had sex again. _That_ confused him.

To say that Cullen ran hot and cold wouldn’t even be close to the truth, and did a disservice to the attention Cullen had offered him without hesitation. He was just as passionate, just as warm when Dorian drew close to him, always offering him a hand to twine their fingers together if the moment offered enough privacy, always smiling fondly and bashfully at him with that adorable hint of a flush in his cheeks and adoration in his eyes. His laughter was like some addictive drug, truth be told, genuine and deep and rolling over Dorian’s skin when he pressed kisses against Cullen’s neck when the opportunity presented itself.

So no, affection between them certainly hadn’t faded, and neither had the hungry look in Cullen’s eyes when it was only the two of them, when Cullen’s hands coaxed frustrated whimpers from him and his kisses played havoc with his good sense. 

But the sex had stopped after their one night together, and he still didn’t seem to possess the courage to ask Cullen why that was. Whenever he tried, he convinced himself that he was being an impatient, lustful fool, that even a breath of a question would cause Cullen discomfort and embarrassment, or violate a boundary he had placed. Dorian remembered Cullen telling him they needed to slow things down, particularly he remembered him using the word _moderation_ , but he couldn’t quite recall being told they’d have to stop... everything, all together.

Was this what courtship was, in the south? Was it some chaste affair, and even querying after sex was some terrible faux pas that would irrevocably destroy his chances with Cullen of... well...

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sank back into the leather back chair with a muttered curse, immensely frustrated at how flustered he was getting at the intricacies of Ferelden courtship that, as far as he knew, he was simply imagining. One of the rebel mages was standing a wee bit too close as they browsed a nearby bookshelf, and heard his blasphemy, eyes widening with a gasp as they stared at him in shock. Dorian pulled a face at them, whispering the word ‘ _boo_ ’ and biting back a bark of laughter at the look of terror that flashed over their face before they scurried away. 

Still the terrifying blood mage magister from the tyrannical north, apparently. Good to know his tireless efforts to save their miserable hides from an ambitious godling still warranted people running from him wetting their pants in fear. 

He sighed, tired of putting on a brave face for the rabble and tired of second guessing himself when it came to Cullen. Relationships, he was fast beginning to realise, were far more complicated than he would have believed possible; and that in itself was a frustration, because Andraste’s tits, at what point had he become the sort of man to stumble head over heels into a _relationship_ with someone, least of all some backwater soldier of faith with a dead animal wrapped around his shoulders and a chronic fear of shaving who was far more intelligent than he liked to let on and far more fascinating than Dorian would ever have believed possible.

And yet here he was- mooning after him like some lovelorn teen, obsessively reliving their every interaction as if it might provide him with the answers he needed. The sensible thing to do, of course, would be to just ask (oh, and wouldn’t that be a divinely awkward conversation? ‘ _excuse me, my dear Commander, it occurs to me that you have yet to fuck me raw- is there any reason for the delay?_ ’) and yet how daunting had it become to simply ask for something that he had pursued with confident aggression back home? It seemed an impossible predicament to get himself out of without ruining everything and making a fool of himself in the process. If he asked why their intimacies were limited to fully clothed activities, he feared driving a wedge between them that might never be removed. If he didn’t ask.... _Maker_ , his unchecked want for the damnable man was going to drive him mad.

Dorian tried, as well as he was able, to push the thoughts out of his mind. After all, there was much to capture his attention besides a certain Commander with his bare chest and belly glistening against the sun...

Wasn’t there?

And just like that, yet again, he found himself grateful for the relative seclusion of his nook in the library, and the book across his lap that so graciously hid his erection straining at his pants. 

Skyhold had the makings of a decent library, or would do, once they were better settled and he could convince Josephine to allocate more funding to it without being shooed out the door with slanderous claims of ‘ _more important things to attend to_ ’ ringing in his ears. What on earth could be more important than _knowledge_ , than teasing out the mysteries of the universe and making it bend to your will just because of your utter mastery of it? If they were going to defeat Corypheus, they needed to understand him, and in order to understand him, they needed a functional library and not the dreadful excuse for a book collection the shelves currently housed. Yes, yes, obviously he could _see_ the urgent need for repairs to the masonry, and the holes in the roofs weren’t doing anyone any favors, but... alright, perhaps suggesting that stocking the library was more important than simpering at the feet of daft Orlesians _while_ she’d been in the middle of delicate trade discussions with said daft Orlesians hadn’t been the brightest idea he’d ever had, but his point was still valid, damn it all. 

The library needed his carefully loving maintenance, and he needed the distraction it provided, because at the moment his options were fairly limited- tend to the library, allow himself to be dragged out into the uncaring wilderness by their dear Herald, or sit and pine over Cullen. He tried his very best to avoid the second option, and the first hardly took up more than a day or two of his attention and focus before he was bored. Beyond that, there was very little to keep his mind from drifting to Cullen and worrying over the absence of his touch.

When he found himself checking through the various works of Brother Genitivi for any chapters on Ferelden courting rituals, he knew he had to do something. 

Boldness was rewarded, Dorian had always heard; whether the words were true or not, he couldn’t say. He had thought himself a bold enough boy, in his youth, daring with his magic and cheeky with his teachers, and yet it hadn’t really seemed to grant him any extra luck or accolades, on reflection. Most of the praise he’d been offered had been duly earned, through talent and perseverance and stubborn pigheadedness, and his confidence or lack thereof hadn’t really ever altered the outcome; but he hoped, all the same, that the words would prove to be true and that boldness would be rewarded as he made his way across the courtyard and climbed the stairs towards Cullen’s tower, trying his best to look like he hadn’t a care in the world and that his destination was of no consequence to him. 

He was not yet accustomed to the freedom of walking up to another man’s door in the middle of the day, knowing he could enter without risking slanderous accusations from his rivals and brutal reprimands from his family. Old habits died hard, and despite the confidence and devil-may-care attitude he’d done his best to project, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder as he hesitated outside of Cullen’s door.

No one was watching, no one was staring, no one was about to call him out as some deviant malcontent-

\- _well_. Not for the reasons he was worried about, anyway. 

Swallowing hard, holding his breath, Dorian turned back around knocked on the door.

His treacherously fickle heart fluttered a little when he heard Cullen’s call to enter, his voice alone enough to send a shiver over his skin; he scowled at himself, partly amused and partly annoyed at his growing infatuation with the man. Cullen didn’t immediately look up when he all but threw the door open and sauntered in- _casual, blasé, must look nonchalant_ -, but a delighted smile grew on his face at Dorian’s dramatic entrance, glancing up at him from where he was leaning over his desk. “I’ve not lost track of the time again, have I?” he asked, chuckling in amusement as Dorian perched himself gracefully on the corner of the desk closest to him. His lower back was clearly hurting him, given that he was working on his feet instead of making use of the chair, currently shoved up against a half full bookshelf; Dorian had an urge to scold him fiercely for insisting on helping with the heavy labour, followed promptly by visions of dragging him up the rickety ladder to his woeful excuse for a bedchamber and pushing him onto his stomach on the bed before straddling his hips and rubbing his aching back with oils... 

“Dorian?”

“Hmm?” He shook himself, blinking to clear the lurid images from in front of his eyes. 

Cullen laughed. “I said, I know we had plans to play chess this afternoon, and I promise I’ve not forgotten- did you hear a word I said?”

“Not a single word,” he said bluntly, pretending he couldn’t feel the way his cheeks heated slightly. “I was too distracted by your delightful mouth.”

He was rewarded by a similar flush coloring Cullen’s cheeks, grinning wickedly at him as he straightened from his work- not without a slight grimace and a hand that went to his hip, as if he meant to press it into his lower back and thought better of it- and stepped up to where he was perched on the edge of the desk. Cullen’s fingers brushed over his where they rested on the desk to keep him balanced, just a whisper of a touch that made Dorian shiver and Cullen’s smile turn from amused to hungry; he glanced over Dorian’s shoulder towards the open door, to make sure they were truly alone, before ducking his head and kissing him softly, one hand going up to his cheek while the other stayed over his hand. He tasted faintly of coffee, his mouth warm and tempting as he teased Dorian’s upper lip between his; Dorian shivered again, his fingers curling at his touch, enough that Cullen was able to slide his fingers between them. 

“Distracted like that?” Cullen murmured, kissing each word to his mouth.

“You are a _wicked_ man.”

Cullen’s soft chuckle made his heart race. “Was there something you needed?” he murmured, his thumb brushing over Dorian’s lower lip as he pulled away.

He was... exquisite, in everything he did. Exquisitely beautiful, exquisitely breathtaking, exquisitely _cruel_ in how he kissed and pulled back. With incredible willpower, Dorian managed not to whine like some needy puppy when Cullen moved to balance himself beside him on the desk, and he composed himself enough to offer him a small, charming smile.

His heart was beating hard, and when he swallowed he could feel the pulse in his throat fluttering. To anyone who might have come to the door at that moment, they were simply two professionals, two friends, sitting and conversing privately; they couldn’t see the tremor that ran down his back, or the way he licked at suddenly dry lips, or the way his foot jostled restlessly under the desk. Why was he so damnably nervous? What did he even expect would happen when he asked why they... when he asked what he needed to ask.

And why did he even _need_ to ask? Why did he need anything but what they already had together, this burgeoning friendship and attraction that alternately thrilled and terrified him? Why wasn’t he simply content to be kissed and held and treated with so much tender affection?

Maker, what was Blighted well _wrong_ with him?

Beside him, Cullen was waiting expectantly for his answer, his smile slowly fading by inches, his eyes questioning and open as he waited.

“I was...” Dorian cleared his throat, flushing at his own hesitance and inability to just say what he needed to say.

What would happen? Perhaps what _always_ happened in this situation.

He would be alone.

“It was nothing,” Dorian said casually, waving his hand dismissively. He smiled, stronger now, and climbed sinuously to his feet, brushing past Cullen as he made his way over to the bookshelf to peruse the meagre contents. Cullen watched him as he went, a smile on his face as he shook his head at the performance. “Boring, boring, oh dear Maker, _embarrassingly_ poorly researched, you really shouldn’t have this volume on display, it’ll damage your credentials-”

“Dorian,” Cullen said patiently, amusement in his voice.

“It basically counts as fiction at this point, is that why you have it? A little light bedtime reading?”

“ _Dorian_.” He looked like he was fighting to hold back a howl of laughter. 

“Yes?” Dorian said with a touch of defiance, turning and pressing his back to the bookshelf dramatically. “Has it become a crime to come and see the man who intends to court me?”

“ _Intends_ to court you?” He smile turned hesitant, a flash of confusion in his eyes replacing the amusement. “I already _am_ courting you.”

_Kaffas._

Dorian lurched upright, straightening away from the bookshelf as Cullen slowly rose to his feet. The little bubble of panic he felt in his stomach threatened to grow larger as Cullen came carefully towards him, not the slow gait of a predator but the cautious, gentle approach of a concerned lover. He almost skittered backwards a step into the shelves when Cullen reached for him, the bubble lurching up into his throat; Cullen paused immediately, waiting for the moment to pass before he took the last step and carefully slid his arms around his waist, every single movement slow and measured as he coaxed him to lean into his embrace. “Dorian,” he said softly, his mouth against his ear as he held him gently, “you know I don’t mind how often you come to see me- if I keep my distance, it’s only ever for your sake. I know how you... the things, _gossip_ , that upsets you.” 

He pulled back slightly, his hands still on his waist as he sought his gaze. “I’ve already spoken to the scout who interrupted us last week,” he said, his face flushing an adorable shade of scarlet. “And while I don’t doubt there are... _whispers_ , about this- um, _us_ , I should say-, there is certainly nothing malicious, nothing that could come back to hurt you, I promise-”

Even despite the open door, Dorian couldn’t help himself- he kissed him, both hands going up to cradle in face as he kissed him desperately. He wasn’t sure whether it was a moment of whimsy on his part, or whether hearing Cullen’s concern for his paranoia had been too much for him and he’d panicked. Cullen kissed him in return, letting him set the pace, his hands resting on his hips and warming him through the fabric of his clothes.

Venhedis, why was he _angry_? Why was he _frustrated_ by Cullen’s attempts to be considerate, and chivalrous, when it was everything he’d desperately hoped for and convinced himself not to expect for years now? His hands slid down from his face, down to the front of his armor, where he buried his fingers tight into the edges of his pauldrons. “ _Cullen_ ,” he moaned, clinging to him as if he needed him to help him stay upright, or as if he was about to shake him in frustration.

Could’ve been either, really. 

Cullen’s breathing was a little heavier, his lips parted as he panted softly. “I don’t want you to ever think you’re imposing yourself on me,” he murmured. “I’m not- _Maker_. I’m not _hiding_ this, Dorian.”

Blighted, big-hearted, beautiful wretched _fool_.

Dorian should have been well versed in Cullen’s rather magnanimous nature by now- the way he kept his heart and his hand and his arms open to him, but he found the prospect of being so deeply and completely respected and valued to be... terrifyingly uncharted territory. 

In Tevinter, he had been a dalliance, a thrill kept on the side, given pleasure in the shadows and left with a cold kiss on his mouth before being shoved out into the night. That was something he was used to; being discarded and forgotten, taking his pleasure wherever and whenever he could, and if any of his partners had ever longed for more in the same way he did, they’d never had the courage to push against social expectations and pursue things further, or given him reason to hope they might want to.

But _this_?

This was something foreign, and Dorian had no idea how to navigate such terrain.

He dipped his head, fingers slowly relaxing against his chest as he rested their brows together. “I... know that,” he said, stiltedly, hesitantly. “I just...”

“Yes?”

Dorian was under no illusions about his own magnificence- he knew he possessed incredible courage and boldness, given that he had abandoned his entire life of luxury and opportunity and had instead elected to come south with no coin and no plan and no destination but for his desire to do something _right_ for once.

But looking into Cullen’s eyes, that courage wavered.

“I wanted to ask about this nonsense about the Ball,” Dorian said, almost flinching at his own lie. He buried his guilt and reached for glibness instead. “My understanding seems to be that the Inquisitor, darling that she is, intends to drag me along with her, and I’d like to know what I’m being involved in; aside from a dull Orlesian party with nothing on offer but that fetid mould you southerners call cheese and that sour piss you call wine.”

Cullen chuckled at the extravagance of his descriptions, but his pause afterwards as he ran the backs of his knuckles over Dorian’s cheek was a rather strong indication that his flippancy hadn’t covered his moment of weakness. “I’m afraid you’re absolutely asking the wrong person,” he said casually, very pointedly not asking him about it, “you’d find it far more informative to speak to Josephine, or even Leliana. My experience with such affairs wouldn’t fill a thimble.”

He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the open door, and squeezed him by the hips reassuringly. “One moment,” he said, heading over to shut the door from any prying eyes. He stopped short of locking it, his hand hesitating on the latch for the longest time as Dorian held his breath and waited to see what he chose; Cullen looked back at him, a determination in his gaze that made him shiver, and very slowly took his hand off the unlocked door. 

A thrill went through him, a sizzle of adrenalin and lust. 

Cullen returned to his side, smiling almost slyly as he backed him up against the bookshelves, pressing in deliciously close as he slid one hand around his neck to settle at the back of his head. “That’s better,” he murmured, tugging him closer and tilting his head to face his, before closing his lips over his and kissing him with a little more heat than their previous kisses. 

Dorian groaned softly, his arms going around his waist a moment later; he felt Cullen smile against his mouth. “I know you were watching me this morning,” he said, kissing him between the words. “You didn’t really come to ask me about the ball, did you?”

 _Maker_... Cullen really _had_ been strutting and flexing for his sake; he hadn’t really thought him capable of that sort of exhibitionism. He’d stripped off to the waist and gotten himself flushed and sweat-soaked just to tease him...

He moaned, suddenly uncomfortably aroused, and Cullen took that as permission to slide his thigh between Dorian’s legs, pressing against his cock with just enough pressure to make him gasp; the growing heat from their kiss shot down into his belly and groin, and with every panting whimper he let go, Cullen managed to slide his tongue along his lips, taunting him into opening further.

Cullen was certainly persistent, he’d give him that; Dorian _did_ want to tell him what was bothering him, he really did, because perhaps if he told him they could continue this delightful interlude to its delightful conclusion and he could stop working himself into a miserable wreck about what he’d done to drive Cullen from his bed. With a desperate sigh of regret against his lips, Dorian pulled away and prepared himself to ask the question he so badly wanted- _needed_ \- to ask...

... and found himself a little lost when he looked up into Cullen’s eyes.

Dorian swallowed, once, twice, his fingers slipping from Cullen’s waist to his hips, settling there comfortably as he panted to get his breath back. Wasn’t that a perfect example of what happened to him whenever Cullen was close to him?

He settled, comfortably.

Dorian tried to be flippant, to pretend that he wasn’t churning inside, but he knew that there was too much emotion in his voice and in his eyes. “You think you’re _so_ clever, don’t you?” Dorian asked. “Here I thought I could fool you with my very obvious beauty and charm, and you managed to catch me with the very same ploy. A cunning plan, Commander.”

Cullen grinned wickedly. “And here I was hoping I could work it to my advantage for a little longer.” 

“Well, you’ve hardly accumulated enough empirical evidence for a thorough conclusion,” he said, biting his lip half from arousal and half from amusement. “You’d have to repeat the experiment numerous times, for quality assurance.”

“Oh, would I now?”

“Oh yes, quite. It’s for science, Commander, and we mustn’t succumb to half measures in the pursuit of science.”

“Well, if it’s for _science_...”

He was a lost cause, truly, because he honestly couldn’t say he’d ever heard anything more instantly arousing than the way Cullen growled the word _science_.

It was too much- he had to ask, he had to know, because right now he was about a hairsbreadth away from tackling him to the floor and having his way with him right then and there, unlocked door and everything. Dorian summoned whatever courage he had left and barreled ahead. “I was curious,” he began. “Wondering, I mean... I understand that you wished to court me properly and that’s all well and good, but I wanted to know, wanted to _ask_...”

 _Just spit it out, you coward,_ Dorian thought, and the words made him flinch.

“-Why you haven’t come to see me, since our night together,” Dorian finished, in a whisper. He realized how soft his voice was, and he turned his chin up almost defiantly, as though he could add to his strength. “You told me you didn’t regret anything,” he said, voice steadier and stronger. “Has that changed?”

There was confusion and anger in him in equal measures, and he saw the way Cullen nearly took a step backwards, a flicker of dismay in his eyes as he looked away.

The heat in him wilted, convinced that such a look only confirmed what he’d foolishly decided was impossible. “Because if it has, I’d appreciate being informed of such updates,” he said, pressing onwards. “Seems only the polite thing to do, but what do I know?”

“Dorian, I-” Cullen closed his eyes, something akin to grief in his expression. “Dorian, do you honestly think I would be so cruel?”

“Cruel? No, not really. Reluctant to broach an unpleasant topic for fear of the repercussions? Absolutely.”

Cullen winced. “That’s a fair point.” He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Such a conversation was inevitable, and I’ve been a coward for having avoided it for so long at all.”

Dorian felt his heart crumble in his chest. 

“Dorian,” Cullen said again, more controlled as he took Dorian’s hands in his own, “I told you the truth that day- there is nothing I regret about our... about _this_ , whatever it is, except for the timing. If I could do things differently, I wouldn’t have started so... _abruptly_.”

Dorian’s face wasn’t quite brittle, wasn’t quite suspicious, but the mask he wore was fragile and he knew he couldn’t hold himself together for much longer; Cullen sighed, rubbing his thumbs over his knuckles. “I’ve not... done this before. The idea of commitment doesn’t frighten me at all, but...”

_Out with it, kaffas._

“I’ve never really sought physical companionship either,” he said awkwardly. “That’s not to say that I’d _never_ , well... there were a handful of occasions in my past where... the _opportunity_ presented itself at a time when I was amicable to the idea- if you don’t stop smirking I swear-”

The meaning of his words suddenly slammed into him with all the force of the avalanche that had brought them together in the first place. “Would it help if I wore a sister’s habit, to help you with your long winded confession?” he blurted out, aiming for glibness while his head reeled, trying to come to terms with what Cullen was painfully dancing around. 

Cullen scowled, his cheeks red. “What I am _trying_ to say,” he said pointedly, “is that prior to your entry into my life, sex was not something I sought out at all. My encounters number less than the fingers on one hand- including our night together- and I was _happy_ with that.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated at his inability to express himself well. “I was not necessarily disinterested, just... Maker, I don’t know!”

He swallowed, his throat working as he tried to control himself. “And then, you were so distressed after our night together, and I thought... well, I thought, maybe it would just be better? Going slowly, I mean. Or, just...”

He let out a frustrated breath. “I’m making a mess of this.”

Dorian waited for several agonizingly long heartbeats, watching his face and looking for any sign of deception. “Cullen,” he said slowly, his voice low, “I need to ask you, in all seriousness- if this is how you regard sex, did I-”

“You didn’t coerce me,” Cullen said in a rush, panic flaring in his eyes. “ _Maker_ , Dorian, _no_ , there was nothing- _Maker_.”

Dorian laughed, his head falling back against the bookshelves as a wave of weariness overtook him. It must have sounded bitter, because the way Cullen stared at him, frozen in place, was very hot and pointed. He smiled tiredly, squeezing gently at Cullen’s fingers to reassure him that he hadn’t laughed with malice or at his expense. He laughed because... they were both very skilled at making a mess of things.

They had come together in a storm, shivering and desperate, driven together out of loneliness and longing and good old fashioned lust. And then, he had chased Cullen out into the snow and had it out with him very nearly in front of his men because of his paranoid conviction that Cullen meant to toss him aside as easily as everyone always had.

And now? Here they were again, feeling each other out, walking through mine fields because they couldn’t simply _talk_ to one another. Instead they’d both studiously avoided communicating until it had exploded in their faces. 

Dorian kept expecting Cullen to turn around and shun him, to realise what a mistake it was getting involved with him, whereas Cullen seemed determined to treat him as if he was made of glass, too fragile to do anything that might unsettle him, _including_ having awkward conversations. 

It was almost amusing how intent they’d both been on being as stubbornly paranoid as possible.

“If you _wanted_ to go slowly, you only needed to _tell_ me,” Dorian said, pulling Cullen’s hands to his lips and kissing his knuckles gently, resting them against his mouth as he closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. “If you want _anything_ , you need only tell me. I am not some lustful beast who needs to constantly be sated for fear of my wrath.” His mouth thinned unhappily against Cullen’s knuckles. “ _Especially_ not if it’s at the sake of your own comfort.”

Dorian brushed his cheek over Cullen’s knuckles. “I want you to feel comfortable. You blasted _fool_ , I thought I’d done something to push you away, and all you had to do was _tell me what you needed._ ”

Cullen made a sound of frustration, but he didn’t pull away. “I didn’t _want_ to go slow,” he said, frowning at himself, staring rather pointedly at the shelves far to the right of Dorian’s head. “It’s not that I’m afraid, or... Maker this is so difficult. It’s just that sex is-”

He gritted his teeth and tipped his head back, the cords of muscles in his neck standing out starkly enough to show Dorian just how stressed he was. “Sex is _complicated_ , and I know it should be _simple_ instead, and it’s not for not wanting you because Maker knows you’ve occupied my thoughts more than is healthy lately, and it’s not for not finding you attractive because you are so ridiculously attractive that it’s distracted me into walking into a door at least once-”

“You walked into a door? Honestly?”

He let out a frustrated laugh. “Maker, I’ve never actually tried to explain it out loud before. It makes plenty of sense in my head.” He looked back to Dorian, who at some point in the last minute or so had taken it upon himself to run his thumb slowly over the back of his knuckles. “If it is... a source of concern for you, I- it doesn’t make me uncomfortable if you felt we should... push forward-” 

“Stop that,” Dorian snapped, horrified and angry beyond belief that Cullen would even think to suggest such a thing. “I’m not an animal, and I’m not interested in anything you have to give me that isn’t given with complete consent and comfort.”

Cullen quite visibly slumped before him. “I just want it to be _simple_.” 

His battered heart began to flicker back to life, fluttering with sympathy at the defeatist tone in Cullen’s voice. “Cullen,” Dorian sighed, his anger slowly seeping away. He wanted so badly to push forward, to close the space between them and not let an inch separate them, but he wanted to make sure it was what Cullen wanted. If things were complicated, if he only wanted to move forward with him because he felt he was obligated....

No, that wasn’t it at all- looking into his eyes, Dorian could see that wasn’t the case. He’d known men and women back home in the Imperium who claimed to have similar muted desires; sometimes the gossip mills implied it was a laughable affliction, or some feigned act out of disdain for their arranged marriage to a spouse they felt nothing for.

Dorian suspected that there were a great deal of such rumours that were as hurtful as the ones he’d endured, and had made a point never to lower himself to indulge in such gossip. If even one of them was like him, hiding the ways of their heart behind a callous smile and enduring the petty whispers of the Imperial Court without flinching, then he would not be responsible for furthering their pain.

He knew what that felt like. 

“It should be simple,” Dorian said, gripping the collar of Cullen’s shirt and pulling him nearer. “ _Having_ sex is simple. _Not_ having sex is simple. Either way, it’s not a difficult conversation. I want you. Rather badly, in fact. But I am happy just to have you here with me, to touch you, to kiss you, to sit with you quietly and do nothing at all.”

Dorian kissed him then, gentle and undemanding, Cullen’s lips warm and pliant under his kiss.

“Tell me _how_ you want me, Cullen.”

Dorian rubbed his nose against his and it was a little intimacy in the grand scheme of things, but Cullen shivered all the same. His eyes were closed and he seemed a little lost in the moment, lost in the gentle touch of the kiss. 

When he pulled away, just far enough to speak without breaking all contact, Dorian cheekily pressed a kiss to his nose, making him chuckle. “I _do_ want you Dorian,” he began, then hesitated. “Except... that wasn’t what you asked, and now I sound foolish.”

He laughed awkwardly. “I never lied to you, and I never forced myself into a situation I didn’t want to be in- I _did_ desire you, and I _do_ desire you, it’s just that the... idea of desire, the act of it? Sometimes it comes slowly, or not at all. I know it’s there, in me, but it’s like it’s behind a closed door, and sometimes I have the key to that door, and most of the time I don’t.”

He smoothed his hands flat on Dorian’s shoulders; Dorian wanted him to look up, to meet his gaze, but he knew how painful it could be opening part of yourself up to another, and he didn’t push him. “I enjoy what we do together- what we _have_ done together, and I realise it was selfish and cruel of me to not explain myself and just expect you to understand what my silence meant.” 

“ _Cruel_ ,” Dorian laughed, genuinely amused. “My darling man, I have experienced cruelty, but never from you.”

Perhaps it was better to move slowly, now that Dorian considered it. After all, they had to work together for the foreseeable future, and they needed to maintain a professional friendship at the very least; but more than that, he had never _been_ properly courted, and it was a bit thrilling to think of Cullen spoiling him rotten with affection and romance and friendship, building up his appetite until he was near starved and then-

Well. Anything that came after that point was entirely at Cullen’s pace, but even the mere thought of it made him shiver delightedly.

“Slow, then,” Dorian purred, smiling a bit wickedly. “I like the sound of that, actually. I’m wondering, though, if you’ve the patience for it. I can be _quite_ irresistible.”

Cullen’s smile faltered at the wicked look in Dorian’s eyes, a flash of lust on his face. “You’ll find no arguments here,” he murmured, a little breathless at the smile on his face. “Irresistible seems to be an accurate summation of what you make me feel.”

“ _Good_.”

He leaned in to him again, kissing him slowly, feeling his heart race as Cullen’s hands ran up his back and pulled him closer; at some point, Cullen had settled back on the edge of the desk, and he pulled him between his knees, flush up against him as he ran one hand into his hair and another down to his ass. Dorian moaned softly against his mouth and tried to get closer, wrapping his arms around him, pulling-

There was a knock on the door, and they both groaned in unison. 

“Fasta vass,” Dorian swore, a little breathless and a little dazed. Kissing Cullen was a bit like imbibing in alcohol- the effects could be quick and debilitating and wildly, amazingly _fun_. Also... his knees wobbled and his legs were unsteady as he pushed off of the desk.

Maker, he was _better_ than wine.

“Mm, it looks like you’ve been saved from moving too quickly, amatus,” Dorian whispered. “I will leave you to your meddlesome guest.” He left a kiss on Cullen’s cheek, his stubble scratching his lips.

It took more willpower than he knew he possessed to pull away from him. 

“Chess?” The request, said with a tad of desperation that made him smirk, had him pausing at the door.

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”


	2. The second, a dance

_The Winter Palace, Halamshiral  
Three weeks later_

Cullen was quite certain that if he clenched his jaw any tighter, his teeth would shatter like glass; how _anyone_ could mistake the grimace on his face for a smile was beyond him, but then so much of this nightmarish evening was beyond him. The double talk, the _triple_ talk, the subtlety of body language, the nonsense of secret messages with fans- of _all_ things- and with flowers and colors... his head was swimming, and he couldn’t entirely blame the wine. Leliana had gleefully attempted to draw him into the intrigue earlier in the evening, talking a thousand leagues a minute as she’d explained something... something about shoes? _Maker’s Breath_ , it’d gone in one ear and out the other. And Josephine was no better, twittering endlessly about the minutiae of the lives of people who were undoubtedly influential but who he found he loathed after two minutes of having to hear about their sordid family infighting.

He was a man of action, and this glittering den of snakes was utterly bewildering to him.

As if his frustrations at having to prevent an assassination by _infiltrating a gala_ weren’t bad enough- honestly, this was the most ridiculous idea they’d had to date, and if it were up to him, he’d simply toss the Empress into the nearest carriage and ferry her back to Skyhold to keep her under lock and key until the danger had passed- apparently, to his utter dismay, at some point when he wasn’t looking he’d been declared a _catch_.

It was the most horrifying news he’d had in weeks.

Whatever it was that had the Orlesians flocking to him in their maddening, giggling droves, it mystified him. He couldn’t dance, but that didn’t stop the endless, pleading requests for his presence on the dance floor; he wasn’t one given to drink often, especially not when his stomach was empty and the wine was decadent enough to go straight to his head, but that didn’t change the fact that every time he turned around empty handed someone was standing too close as they pressed a champagne flute into his hand. He had quite the collection of drinks on the window sill behind him, all of them mostly untouched. He couldn’t carry a conversation to save his life, but that hadn’t stopped the crowd forming around him, giggling and smirking and sighing at his every awkward attempt to make small talk.

It was too hot, his uniform was uncomfortable, and if he had to refrain from slapping away any more hands reaching for his posterior, well, he...

He _hated_ this.

And their delightful Inquisitor, _utterly_ charming as she was, had been _utterly_ nowhere to be seen for at least the last half hour, if the whispers going around the ballroom were anything to go by, leaving him as the desperately unwilling focus of most of the attention.

All he could do was grit his teeth until his face ached from trying to smile, and pray the evening passed by quickly.

Dorian, blast him, seemed to be rather enjoying himself, from the few glimpses of him that Cullen had managed throughout the evening so far. Granted, this sort of affair had to come quite naturally to him- the machinations and agendas of the court had to be as familiar to him as breathing. A glittering room full of wealthy, pampered, spoiled fools who had more gold than sense, who played at war like it was a game, and who used the lives of the poor and vulnerable as their chess pieces.

Despite his pretense at misgivings several weeks earlier, he was clearly in his element- flirting outrageously and telling even more outrageous tales, dancing in a fashion that- he was informed by his admiring crowd- tiptoed elegantly along the line between respectable and scandalous. Apparently an hour ago, he’d whispered something so naughty into the ear of a dowager comtesse that she’d swooned, and had to be carried to a private salon while she recovered. He was charming, rakish, and devilishly handsome- and he knew it, Maker take him. Even if he still held onto his apprehensions and truly wasn’t thrilled to be back in such a viper’s nest, no one would ever have known by looking at him.

He might not have been Orlesian by birth, but Dorian had been negotiating his way through such crowds since he was a boy; he might not have been particularly well known outside of the borders of the Imperium, but the name of his House carried some impressive clout, if Cullen was judging the crowd correctly. Dorian mingled comfortably with the snakes, his nationality only making him a point of intrigue rather than a reprobate; he was quick with his jokes and his compliments and even quicker on his feet, dancing with enough grace that the few occasions Cullen watched him he found himself rather dazed by the performance, but careful enough that he seemed utterly incapable of being pinned down as Cullen himself was. 

The few times their eyes had caught one another across the room, heated and secretive, Dorian had smirked and smiled and seemed utterly delighted in the mess Cullen was trapped in, and as the night stretched onwards, Cullen was beginning to grow quite certain that he would have to be cross with him. 

Was it too much to ask for even a minute’s reprieve, honestly?

“Do you know Lord Pavus, Commander?” He shook himself and turned to the young woman beside him who had clung to him quite avidly for a good half of the evening now. “Is it true what they say? Is he really a magister blood mage, who has promised the Inquisitor an army of mind controlled slaves to help her fight Corypheus?”

Cullen scowled at her, unable to maintain a polite facade in the face of such ludicrous nonsense. “Lord Pavus is an intelligent, sensible man, and an invaluable asset in the Inquisition,” he said shortly. “And, more than that, he is neither a blood mage nor a magister, and I will not tolerate any slanderous rumors about him in my presence. Lord Pavus is a good man, one of the best men I know.”

His fervent response drew curious whispers and titters from the crowd assembled around him. “Such a _spirited_ defense of a mage, from a templar no less,” said one of the men who had been unscrupulous about trying to grope him all evening. 

“There are few I have encountered in my years of service who have made a greater sacrifice of themselves than Lord Pavus has, in aiding the Inquisition,” he said. He bit off the desire to snarl at the man for his presumptuous tone, and tell him to mind himself- that he could _never_ match up to someone like Dorian, not in a million years, but he caught himself in time. Maker only knew what this crowd would make of such a passionate response. “Mage or no, he has proved himself worthy, and our Herald trusts him.”

 _As do I_ , he finished silently.

Silence hung heavy for a few long moments, the atmosphere tense, before the conversation abruptly turned again- away from Dorian’s trustworthiness and onto more inane topics, by the sounds of him. Maker’s Breath, if he had to be asked his opinion one more time on the cut of a ballgown, or the likelihood of a couple on the dancefloor being embroiled in an affair, or offered yet another glass of champagne, he might just have to feign an emergency to creep off for a few minutes. 

Blast it all, it would be so much easier if the Inquisitor would just return to the ballroom and draw some of the attention away from him again-

A firm hand gripped him by the elbow, and he glanced sideways with an angry retort already on his lips, half expecting to find his overeager admirer behind him again; instead he felt his jaw drop, utterly stunned to find Dorian beside him looking completely irresistible this close, and with his hand rather tightly around his arm. 

“I need you immediately,” he said, making no effort to keep his voice down; the crowd of nobles around them seemed alternately stunned and delighted by his appearance, and Cullen assumed that it was for their benefit that Dorian spoke so theatrically. “Urgent business, I’m afraid. Terribly sorry to drag you from your adoring public.”

There was a murmur of assent- and one or two whines of unhappiness at his departure- and then Dorian was all but frogmarching him towards one of the innumerous balcony doors. Cullen felt his pulse lurch in a panic, scarcely able to keep himself from demanding the news right then and there in the ballroom. 

Had the assassin made a move early? Had their mischievous Lady Herald fallen afoul of the court? Was Corypheus’ army poised outside ready to swarm in the gates without a moment’s notice? As the balcony doors fell open before them, the promenade beyond empty of party goers, he spun to him, the words bubbling up to his lips and-

And Dorian laughed, his face very briefly straying close to his before he straightened and sauntered across to the balustrade, utterly carefree and amused where a moment ago he had been tense and alert. 

Cullen paused just beyond the doorway, confused and on edge. “Dorian, what’s going on?” he asked, swallowing back the anxiety that had surged up to claw at his throat with Dorian’s ominous words a moment earlier. “Has something gone wrong?”

A moment of confusion followed Cullen’s frantic question, before Dorian’s expression split into a delighted grin. “Honestly, you have no flair for the dramatic, do you?” he scolded.

Cullen blinked. “What?”

Dorian clucked his tongue, giving him an exasperated look that seemed more affectionate than genuine. “ _Fereldans,_ ” he said. “You’re adorably naive. Everything is fine, amatus, there’s no emergency- unless one were to count that dreadful silken monstrosity the Comte Vidirran thinks to pass off as a waist coat.”

“ _Dorian_.”

“You honestly have no idea how to make an exit from a fancy soiree, do you? I just did you a gigantic favor- for which, by the way, I still appear to be waiting to be thanked.”

“A...” Cullen stared at him as it finally clicked into place. “Wait, you _made it up?_ ”

There wasn’t really an emergency?

He breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, almost waving on his feet. “ _Maker’s Breath_ , I thought-” He swallowed. “I thought something had gone _wrong_.”

Slowly his racing heart began to relax again, and he put his hand up to his head; in the safety of the fresh air, he could finally tell just how hot and cloying the air of the ballroom actually was, overburdened with perfume and cologne and floral arrangements and the sickly sweet bitterness of tobacco sticks. His temple throbbed, the onset of a headache, and if he didn’t manage it properly he knew it would morph into a withdrawal headache. 

“I... thank you, Dorian. I appreciate the distraction, but I really should-”

“-stay for a while?” Dorian interrupted, catching Cullen’s elbow once more and keeping him still. He had no right looking so bewilderingly and breathtakingly handsome in a uniform that Cullen only found constricting and unflattering, and standing this close he was even more extraordinary to look at than he had been from across the dancefloor. “That is an excellent idea, darling. You look like you need some fresh air, after all. I’m sure the world won’t plummet into unstoppable chaos in the next few minutes. Well- not any more than it is already.”

He tugged at Cullen’s elbow. “Isn’t it nice out? The perfect night to compliment the way a certain altus’ eyes shine in the moonlight, wouldn’t you say? Or perhaps to extrapolate on the honorable defense of a certain altus that you made earlier in the ballroom?”

“I- what? You- how could you have heard that?” He felt like he was floundering, and he took a deep breath. “Dorian, you look magnificently handsome, as always. I just- forgive me, you just startled me. It’s been a tense evening, and I don’t...”

“You don’t remember giving an impassioned argument on my behalf, declaring me to be a paragon to which all humanity should aspire?”

“...I-”

Dorian sighed melodramatically. “Typical- I should’ve known better than to fall prey to the chain of whispers at a gathering like this. I’d wager by the stunned look on your face that you scarcely even mentioned me in passing, and that the story has grown larger with each retelling.”

Cullen was laughing before he even realised it. “Dorian,” he said, coming to lean against the balustrade beside him. “I _did_ speak of you, as warmly as I dared. I did not want to seem overzealous, but I- I mean, I did _try_ to defend you.”

His eyes certainly were delightful in the moonlight though, dark and slumberous, and as he calmed down from the moment of panic he found himself returning Dorian’s smile. 

He laughed awkwardly and ducked his head, aware he’d been staring. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been short with you- do you, um...” What did one do at a fancy party with someone they actually wanted to spend time with? “Do you want me to fetch you a drink?”

“Do you _honestly_ want to go back inside and try to wend your way through your voracious pack of admirers?” Dorian leaned his elbows against the balustrade, undoubtedly adopting the pose for his own amusement, but Cullen couldn’t help but subtly let his eyes roam over the lines of his body.

The evening so far had been an unremitting nightmare, and was bound to be filled with further danger and excitement and chaos once they got underway and discovered the villain who intended to murder Celene at the bidding of Corypheus; there was no reason they should be expected to spend every single moment in a state of anxiety.

Distraction, he was slowly learning, was good for the blood pressure.

“I would much rather you took a moment to breathe and collect yourself,” Dorian continued, breaking his train of thought. “You’ve been standing by the wall all evening looking like a deer fleeing from the hunter’s hounds, it’s ridiculous how flustered you are for only having stood in a corner for hours. You can’t go back in until you’ve fixed your hair at least. Maker’s breath, you do an awful lot of sweating, don’t you?”

Cullen paused, trying to measure the nature of Dorian’s flirtation and what it was he wanted; if he didn’t know better, he’d say the statement was less teasing and more genuine concern for him and his wellbeing. Which was, to be honest, far more earnest than he’d been expecting from their relatively quiet and casual arrangement. “No, I don’t want to go back inside,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “But I have to. Andraste’s blood, not a thing about tonight makes sense.”

 _Except you_ , he thought, and then decided that was actually appropriately charming.

“Except you,” he said aloud, moving closer in one smooth step and sliding his arm around Dorian’s waist. “If my hair’s already a mess, there’s no reason not to take advantage of that- do you perhaps fancy a dance, Lord Pavus?”

When he had time to reflect on it later, he realised how foolish it was, and how predictable Dorian’s response had been. It could have been the touch that upset him, or his use of the honorific; it could have been a combination of both, and Dorian’s own foolishness at having imbibed on a few too many flutes of champagne than was sensible, despite his earlier acknowledgement that he needed to be on his toes, ready to surge into action should the worst occur. Maybe it was knowing that Cullen had spoken up for him in public, without knowing word would make its way back to him, defending him only because he believed him to be a good man.

Maybe it was a little of all of it. 

He saw the flash of fear in his eyes, the way he flinched as if in immense pain. Dorian twisted himself away from Cullen, eyes darting to the doors leading back to the ballroom to make sure no one had seen, that no curious onlookers had gathered at the door to gleefully catch them in an intimate, shameful moment.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said, his voice sharp and brittle and cutting. “ _Don’t touch me._ Not here.”

Cullen froze at the snarl in Dorian’s voice, keeping himself deathly still as he lurched out of reach, a wild look in his eyes. His heart was in his throat, and he felt ill. “I... I apologize,” he said stiltedly, confused by Dorian’s reaction and furious with himself for prompting it in the first place. “That was inconsiderate of me. I thought... because you touched me, I thought...”

He grimaced, thoroughly frustrated with himself. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. Forget it- do you want me to leave?”

Dorian stared at him, and in the light spilling out from the ballroom, Cullen could see the flush to his cheeks and the wild, miserable look in his eyes; his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and his throat was working as if he was trying to speak and kept swallowing down the words in a panic.

Maker’s Breath, that look made him feel like an utter wretch. “Dorian?”

The hurt in his eyes, the _fear_... it was unbearable. 

“No,” Dorian whispered, a tremor in his voice, and Cullen wasn’t even sure what it was that he was objecting to. “I should be the one to... I should get back to the Inquisitor. I shouldn’t have-”

He cut himself off abruptly with a noise of abject frustration, jaw snapping shut, and for a moment they were frozen like that- facing one another in the moonlight, just slightly out of reach, staring in confusion and hurt and trapped in this miserable bubble of miscommunication and hesitant secrecy. Beyond them, beyond the doors, the wealthy and powerful of Orlais continued on in blissful ignorance, a seething mass of opulence and greed and pride, and Cullen abruptly felt himself a daft fool for thinking that enduring their inanities was the worst thing he’d face this evening. 

The hurt in Dorian’s eyes was infinitely worse. 

Dorian looked away first, jittery as he smoothed his hands over the front of his immaculate uniform. “Excuse me,” he muttered, his eyes turned down as he pushed past Cullen. 

Cullen went to reach for him, but stopped himself at the last second. Dorian was already hurting- the last thing he needed was for him to go pawing at him whining for attention and trying to coerce him to stay.

He’d promised him he would never ever give him a reason to feel fear in his presence and just like that, he'd broken that promise.

The sounds of the ball couldn’t mask the sound of Dorian’s footsteps as he walked away, and Cullen closed his eyes so he that couldn’t see the pain on his face as he all but ran from him. 

And then he was alone, with only the brisk night breeze for company.

He breathed out slowly as he turned let the balustrade take most of his weight, leaning heavily on his elbows; after a moment he reached up to rub at his temples, the headache throbbing with renewed persistence now. He wanted to curse angrily, but that seemed so very childish and ungentlemanly of him, and what was the point? He was angry at himself, not at Dorian, and he could hear himself quite adequately whether he shouted the mockery aloud or closed his eyes and let it ring through his head in silence.

He needed to get back inside and maintain his position, needed to keep an eye on proceedings and make their presence as a military organisation unmistakable to the crowd and to any threats hiding within the crowd.

But all he wanted was the chance to get away from all of this fancy bullshit and get Dorian somewhere where he could just talk to him, reassure him that everything was fine.

What a fucking terrible evening.

“Commander Rutherford?” He glanced over his shoulder to see three young noblemen all jostling each other just inside the door; when they saw they’d caught his attention they bounded forward like overeager pups. “Her Ladyship, the Herald- she said you had the most excellent accounting of the attack on Haven. Would you honour us with the telling?”

He'd spoken too soon.

***

_Comte Pierre’s manor, Halamshiral  
Many hours later_

Could the night have gone any worse?

Oh, not that they’d failed at their task. The Empress was safe and Orlais was, at least for the moment, unified again under a single banner. Gaspard would be summarily executed and he only assumed the same fate awaited Florianne for her treachery. Given the events of the evening, it had been decided that perhaps the Winter Palace was not appropriately equipped to cater to overnight guests, and so the Inquisition had been hurriedly sent back to Halamshiral proper, to the manor of Comte Pierre, one of Celene’s most stalwart allies. 

Nothing more helpful to an already sour mood than to be uprooted and sent packing several hours after midnight just in want of a damned bed... 

A bed that, as it turned out, Cullen wasn’t probably even going to sleep in. He’d travelled with their soldiers, seeing to it that they set up camp adequately outside the walls of the city, and then when he’d deemed it safe and secure, he travelled alone the rest of the way to the manor. The rest of the Inquisitor’s party had gone ahead of him some time ago, and he was ushered in quietly by the steward through the servant’s door so as not to wake the rest of the household. 

He’d been shown to a room in the guest wing, where the rest of their party had been accommodated, and Cullen did his best not to grimace at the sight of the opulent and vastly oversized bedchamber offered to him. All he really cared about was having somewhere to pass out for what remained of the evening, everything else was just unnecessary gilded trimmings that impressed him not a jot. 

Except, of course...

He snared the steward by the arm as he went to leave, clearing his throat awkwardly when he realised how such a gesture could be taken. “I just needed to know,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low, “for the sake of security-”

“I assure you, Commander, my lord has implemented the very highest of security measures since the unfortunate passing of Lord Mainserai-”

Cullen blinked. “I’m sorry?”

The steward likewise blinked, apparently taken aback. “I apologise, Commander, was that not to what you were alluding?”

“Not at all! _What_ unfortunate passing?”

“Was there something I could help you with, Commander?”

Cullen gritted his teeth at the man’s obtuse sidestepping. “For the sake of _security_ ,” he said pointedly, “can you tell me where everyone has taken quarters?”

If the steward found anything peculiar about the request, he did not even hesitate. “The Lady Herald has taken the room at the very far end of the hallway, with Lady Montilyet in the adjoining suite. Lady Pentaghast has taken the smaller room nearest to the grand staircase. Sister Nightingale took the room opposite to her. Madame de Fer has the suite opposite your own, and Lord Pavus is in the rooms to your immediate left.”

He felt the tension bleed out of him almost instantly. Dorian was close by. 

He scrubbed wearily at his face, feeling the evening beginning to catch up with him. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “That will be all.”

“Ser.”

The waiting was agonizing- he passed the time by changing out of the ridiculous formalwear and into something infinitely more comfortable, hissing in a sigh of relief when he kicked off his boots and felt the luxurious wool rugs beneath his toes. But he couldn’t just go charging out into the hallway towards Dorian’s room when the steward had only just left, so he bided his time, splashing water onto one of the washcloths provided and scrubbing fiercely at his skin to work off the sweat and the stink of the evening. He could still smell the faint hint of tobacco smoke clinging to him, and he scowled and scrubbed harder, eventually giving up and tugging an old cotton shirt over his shoulders for sleep. 

That had been five minutes- surely now, things had to be safe?

Cullen eased himself quietly into the hallway beyond his room, hovering for several agonizingly long moments in the shadows to make sure there were no servants still bustling about, or no late night revellers celebrating their victory at the Ball. Certainly their dear Inquisitor had been euphorically giddy on the triumph, giggling and acting rather pointedly affectionate with Josephine despite their audience, so hopefully neither of them would be up and about to catch him slinking through the halls like some errant child.

He gritted his teeth- it wasn’t like he wanted to be slinking, but... _Maker_. Every time he thought he had a read on Dorian, and what made him flinch, the boundaries changed again. He wasn’t angry at Dorian at all, far from it- he was angry at _himself_ , for not adapting faster. He should have been more understanding, he should have been more gentle, he should have been quicker to recognise the signs of Dorian’s distress... 

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t _enough_. That much was clear.

And so it was for Dorian that he crept quietly down the carpeted hallway, grateful for the plush wool beneath his feet that muffled his passage. Because if Dorian was still uncomfortable with the idea of publicly acknowledging their... _whatever_ it was, then he wasn’t going to push him. 

The manor was relatively quiet, with some sounds echoing up from the lower floors, but he encountered no one as he crept up to Dorian’s door, looking around carefully before rapping gently on the door.

“Dorian?” he called softly, leaning up against the door. “Dorian, are you awake?”

He’d made such a mess of everything, and he only wanted to make things right again.

For several excruciatingly long moments, there was no answer, and Cullen felt his heart sink; it was too much to hope that Dorian might have still be up, too arrogant of him to assume that Dorian wouldn’t have taken advantage of the luxury accommodations to simply pass out after the tumultuous evening they’d had. If he was exhausted, he couldn’t even imagine what Dorian must be feeling, after being lured to dark parts of the palace with the Inquisitor and being jumped by Florianne’s goons. 

The silence stretched onwards, and he bowed his head in defeat; shame and guilt warmed him, heating his face and ears and chest. There was a bubble of unease in his belly as his hand fell away from the door. For a brief moment he thought of knocking again, a little more urgently, because he couldn’t bear to leave this conversation until morning.

But Dorian deserved better than that, and while Cullen had very little experience with romantic relationships, he had never been a coward. He would not barge into his room and press his attentions on him just to ease his own conscience.

He took a deep breath, his eyes stinging, and went to move back to his own room. 

“I’m awake.” 

He froze again, his heart lurching up into his throat; dashing at his eyes with the back of his hands quickly, he cleared his throat and moved back to the door, pressing himself as close to it as he dared. “Dorian?” he called, his voice cracking a little on his name.

A flicker of light came from beneath the door; he must have lit a candle. “Come in, Cullen,” he said, sounding just as weary as Cullen had expected. “It’s unlocked.”

Taking a deep breath, Cullen carefully eased open the door, so no tell-tale sounds of squeaking hinges could echo down the hallway and alert the rest of the wing as to what they were up to- and wasn’t _that_ something to think about. If you’d told him ten years ago that he’d be attending Orlesian galas hosted by the Empress herself and sneaking through the dark in an opulent manor so that he could creep into the bedroom of a Tevinter mage unseen...

... Maker, he couldn’t _ever_ let Varric hear about this.

There were a handful of flickering candles in the room, and Dorian sat on the edge of the bed in a silk robe that he hadn’t really bothered to tie closed adequately, handsome even in his dishevelment, his body language guarded as he watched Cullen close the door behind him. 

As the latch clicked behind him, Cullen leaned back against the door and paused, waiting for inspiration to strike him. Dorian watched him silently from the bed, and the moment stretched out between them, not exactly pleasant but certainly intimate and heavy and intense. 

He had no idea where to start, or what he wanted to say. He had so many things he wanted to say that he worried if he started now, he’d never stop. 

“Dorian,” he said softly, holding his position by the door, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know what reaction he’d expected from Dorian, really- he was almost convinced that Dorian would throw him out on his ear, and that whatever harm he had caused was irreparable. 

The reaction he got was certainly the one furthest from his mind.

Dorian was _crying_ \- he wasn’t wracked with sobs or reduced to a slobbering, blubbering mess, but the tears slid onto his cheeks and made his shoulders tremble. There was no shield there, no mask, no wall of levity and irreverence that Cullen had come to expect from him these last few months. 

“ _Sorry_?” Dorian asked, the word thick with self loathing and bitterness. “Which one of us acted like an ass, Cullen? I’m fairly certain it was me.”

His heart lurched up into his throat at the tremor in Dorian’s voice, and he was pushing off the door and stumbling to his side before he even knew he was doing it. He almost fell to his knees before him, wanting to take his hands and kneel and promise him that he would do _everything_ in his power to keep him safe as long as he stopped crying, just so long as he never had reason to cry ever again.

The way he turned his head away, the way his cheeks glistened in the flickering candlelight with no sounds of grief from him, broke his heart more ruthlessly than any cruel words ever could. 

He didn’t kneel, in the end, because he had to touch him, had to hold him, had to wrap himself around him and stop the world and show him it was just the two of them, alone and safe together. The mattress sagged as he climbed on beside him, whispering his name like a mantra as he reached for him, wrapping his arms around him.

“Dorian,” he murmured, running his hands down his back and feeling him tremble through the thin silk of his robe. “I’m so sorry, Maker I’m so sorry.”

That seemed to be last straw for him- Dorian’s hands went to the front of his shirt and clawed almost desperately into the fabric, his body shaking as he turned into his arms silently and buried himself there. Cullen held him as tightly as he dared, whispering an endless stream of calming reassurances, cradling the back of his head as he hid his face in the side of his neck. 

He could feel every sob he held back, every tremor that passed through him, and he pulled him onto his lap; it was like a dam had burst within him, and suddenly Dorian was talking, babbling, a thousand words a minute as he shook and shuddered in his arms. He told him stories of Tevinter, of glamorous parties like tonight, and of the things he’d endured with a shallow, charming smile for the sake of his family name. He spoke of men, of learning the secret languages that could be told with cravats and handkerchiefs and jewellery, of scandalous notes passed between slaves that could dissolve the old Empire into scandal and anarchy if discovered.

This was the way of things, he told him, the way men found brief moments of comfort and release with one another; no one had ever _dared_ to offer him more than that, or acted like he was worth the risk inherent with offering more.

Cullen’s heart broke anew, and he pressed his mouth against his hair in awkward, clumsy kisses, as if that could ease the hurt and the timidity and the bitterness he could hear in every word he spoke. He didn’t interrupt him, but let him pour out the grief and the hate that had been poisoning him for so long, because if he scared him off now Maker only knew when he would feel comfortable enough again to try and lance such a wound. 

Dorian told him- back home, he had been expected to be confident, strong, made of unwavering steel. Any imperfection or flicker of emotion or moment of fragility were seen only as vulnerabilities that could be exploited by their rivals. He couldn’t stop to take a moment of indulgent intimacy with a lover, not when it could come back to tear down everything his family had ever stood for. He couldn’t dance, or share a drink, or stop for the sort of quiet affection that Cullen showed him time after time. In Skyhold it was different- in Skyhold it was frightening, but manageable, because it was a place of sanctuary for them all. 

Here, in the glittering ballroom, with all the gossip and all the cruelty, it had been too close to home, and every old shame and every old mockery had come back to drag him under again. 

And then he seemed to run out of words- or perhaps it was the strength to speak them- and instead he was just trembling in his arms, shivering and tense. Cullen’s neck was damp where Dorian had cried silently against his skin, not giving voice once to the tears but for the way his voice cracked and strained. 

“Oh, Dorian,” he murmured, smoothing his hair back from his forehead and pressing a kiss against his skin. 

How had it come to this so quickly? How had Dorian wrapped himself around his soul so tightly that he couldn’t remember what it felt like without him there? Without his quips and his smirks, without the stubborn wit and towering intellect hiding behind a rakish smile? Two months ago they had been strangers, eyeing one another uneasily across the war table in Haven, and now...

Now he didn’t know what they were, only that Dorian made him laugh and made him relax after years of gritting his teeth and soldiering on regardless of his own discomfort. Dorian made him stop and take a breath and acknowledge the moment, and more than that he made him feel like his attempts at personal redemption weren’t quite hopeless. 

And he wanted to do the same for him, but Dorian only seemed to hurt with each attempt he made.

He ran one hand up his back and into his hair, cradling him gently where he rested against him. “Tell me what you need me to do to fix this, and I’ll do it. _Anything_ , Dorian.”

He heard him laugh weakly, a tremor that was half hiccup and half chuckle. “I’ve half a mind to ask you to kiss it all better, if you are feeling obliging.”

“But?” Cullen asked, hearing the hesitance at the end of the sentence.

Dorian sighed, and nuzzled at his neck. “But after years of smiling and joking and being very charming... I’m very tired, amatus. I’m tired and I... I like the way you... hold me.”

“I can do that.”

For a while, they stayed like that, with Dorian tucked under Cullen’s chin and his fingers knotted in his shirt and his breath slowing and steadying against him. Cullen had begun to wonder whether Dorian had fallen asleep like that, and was wondering whether it would disturb him to move him back towards the pillows, when he stirred again in his arms. 

Dorian lifted his head, with only the wet smears on his cheeks to show he’d let his emotions get the better of him; his hair was a mess from where Cullen had been running his fingers through it, and his eyes were a little puffy, but Cullen honestly couldn’t say he’d ever seen anyone more striking than Dorian in that moment. Dorian’s breathing was still a little uneven as his hand came up slowly to trace his fingertips over his chin, as if he was exploring him for the first time ever. Cullen didn’t move, just sat patiently and let him touch him; he closed his eyes as Dorian nudged his nose against Cullen’s temple. When he breathed in, he smelled him, sweat and skin and the faint hint of the decadent spiced soap he preferred, and his heart skipped a beat. 

“You can’t fix anything,” Dorian said hoarsely, his lips pressed to his temple. “Just...” Cullen opened his eyes to look up at him, and Dorian sighed and rested his brow to Cullen’s, fingers moving from where they had bunched in his shirt to bunch in his hair instead. “Just stay here with me like this, amatus. Just stay here for a while.”

“You still haven’t told me what that word means,” Cullen murmured, running his hands slowly up and down his arms, feeling the way his body slowly calmed and relaxed and his breathing evened out, and relaxing in kind, relieved that Dorian had come through the worst of it. “If I were a man given over to scheming, I’d take it upon myself to ask some other ‘vint conveniently running around Skyhold.”

_Stay here with me, amatus._

So, stay the night? His stomach fluttered at the thought, remembering what had happened the last time they’d spent a night together. He didn’t fear sex, and he desired Dorian more than he felt was entirely healthy, but he... he couldn’t really feel the urge, the _rightness_ of the moment. He didn’t want to be like the other men Dorian had taken to his bed in the past, a secret visitor to his rooms in the middle of the night with no more affection than was utterly necessary for the act. There was too much weight on them tonight, too much twisting, frustrated emotion- and Dorian deserved better of him than that. 

And more than that, an offer to stay the night without the threat of frozen death hanging over him meant that certain conversations were inevitable. Dorian had discreetly skirted around the topic of lyrium in their discussions, but Cullen knew he was curious, and with the amount of time they spent together, it was obvious to anyone with even a meagre understanding of templar practices that he was not, in fact, bound to templar practices. But they hadn’t discussed it freely, and until now Cullen had been grateful for it, but now... an invitation to stay meant he had to explain the nightmares, which meant having to explain the withdrawals, and also meant having to explain Kinloch Hold. 

Eleven years later, and he still wasn’t good at explaining Kinloch Hold. 

So instead, because he wasn’t feeling particularly brave in that moment, he climbed to his feet, unwinding himself from where Dorian was wrapped around him; he turned before Dorian could panic at his apparent departure, half bowing to him as he offered him his hand. “Dance with me,” he said, as if that was a sensible thing to do, as if that was the best way to escape from the need to talk about nightmares and torture and a lifetime’s worth of self loathing and hurt. “We didn’t get a chance tonight.”

The request was so outlandish, so unexpected, that for a moment Dorian could only stare at him, eyes flicking from Cullen’s outstretched hand to his face. He knew it had to look like a jest from Dorian’s perspective, so he waited patiently, expression gentle and inviting.

Dorian sat there for nearly a full minute, his face adorably flustered as he tried to process Cullen’s invitation. “ _Dance_ ,” he finally chuckled nervously, his tone incredulous as he crossed his arms over his chest almost protectively. “I have been asked to do a lot of things in a bedroom, Cullen, but _dancing_ -”

He looked so vulnerable, but so hopeful. “There’s no music.”

Cullen reached down and took his hand in his, and pulled him gently to his feet. “If you need music, I’ll make music,” he said boldly, even though he could feel himself blushing to the tips of his ears. He positioned Dorian’s hand on his shoulder and then slid his hand around the slight curve of his waist. “Do you have any particular requests, any favourites? No Antivan love songs, please, my attempts at Antivan are an insult to the language.”

When Cullen pulled him close, Dorian gasped softly; Cullen chuckled at the feel of his half hard cock between them, hidden only by the thin silk of the robe. “No special requests, then?” he murmured, grinning as he rubbed his nose against his. He couldn’t remember a time where he’d wanted anyone _more_ , and it wasn’t even a sexual hunger. The way he wanted Dorian was... complicated. He wanted him close, closer than their flesh would allow.

He wanted him forever, and that was a want that scared him.

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian said, a sigh against Cullen’s mouth, and before he could ask what the words meant, Dorian kissed him.

His hand tightened around his hip, and he fought the urge to chuckle gently, afraid of breaking the moment and hurting his feelings; instead he let him kiss him, close and warm and fragile, and he squeezed his hand softly as a warning before he took a step, the first step of something that didn’t even remotely resemble dancing, but would do for the moment. 

He hummed against his mouth, just a silly tavern song that had popped into his head a moment earlier, kissing him and breathing him in and panting softly against his mouth as he turned him in awkward, uncoordinated circles across the room. “You didn’t strike me as the type to let someone else lead,” he whispered against his mouth, picking up the humming again a moment later as he rested his forehead against his. “You’ve always struck me as very competitive and... take charge... ish.”

Dorian chuckled hoarsely at his awkward wording. “‘m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice a little slurred. Whether he was tired or whether he’d drunk more at the gala than Cullen had first assumed... “I’m not used to dancing in a robe. You’ve put me in a very... delicate position, _amatus_.”

 _Ah_ \- or it could have been arousal, of course.

The last word was a playful, teasing whisper, a smile on his face that seemed more relaxed and more genuine than any he’d worn all evening. He knew how badly Cullen wanted to know what the word meant, and if teasing him about it made him happy, Cullen could bear the little ignominy. Dorian laughed delightedly at the exasperated look on his face, and Cullen had to admit he quite liked it when he smoothed the lines of his brow with a small, gentle kiss.

Cullen slid his hand around the faint curve of his hip and let his fingers splay flat against his lower back, teasingly close to the fullness of his ass. He tugged him closer, chuckling at Dorian’s low groan as he pulled him flush against him, the robe utterly incapable of hiding his hardening cock from view, and Cullen took full advantage of that. The dance- if it could ever even politely have been called a dance- was nothing more than a slow turning circle, the two of them rocking back and forth on the spot while Cullen hummed softly against his ear and put enough rolling pressure through his hips that Dorian shivered every now and then, his cock hard between them. 

Cullen had a moment of smug satisfaction to at least commend himself on staying in pants; all the better for teasing Dorian. He nuzzled at the side of his jaw. “I would’ve danced with you, if you’d asked,” he said. “Or, rather, tried to dance. I would’ve embarrassed us both, but if you’d asked...”

Dorian bit his lip, an agonised look in his eyes. “I... _couldn’t,_ ” he said, utterly miserable.

Cullen brushed his mouth over the abused lip, being exquisitely gentle with the place he’d just bitten down on. “I know,” he murmured. “I understand. But I wanted you to know that I _would_ have- and if you ever change your mind, I _will_.”

Dorian whined, chasing his mouth with his, and for a moment their dance ground to a halt as Cullen let him take his fill of him, his hands drifting down to cup him by the ass and drag him flush against him.

“Cullen,” Dorian gasped against his mouth. “ _Please_.”

And then he was abruptly pushing back, his hands on his chest instead of over his shoulders; he was breathing frantically, and he averted his gaze almost guiltily to the side. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice shaking. “I can usually resist acting like some lusty teenager with only a mind for rutting, I swear.”

Cullen reached up and cupped his face between his palms, marvelling at how soft his skin was, and how warm. Dorian’s eyes were just short of wild, and he had trouble holding his gaze, panting softly and glancing at him before he looked away quickly. 

“Dorian,” he said softly, “don’t feel like you ever need to apologise for your desires. Just because I said what I did about... _myself_ , doesn’t mean that I want you to feel guilty or associate your needs with guilt. I love-”

His courage fizzled away.

“-your passion,” he finished stiltedly, hoping Dorian wouldn’t notice the blunder. “And I want you to always feel safe with your desires. With me, I mean.”

He leaned forward until his forehead was resting against his. “Do you want me to stay? No expectations for either of us, just... stay the night and see how it feels?”

Dorian took in a steadying breath, his eyes closed as he rested with him; Cullen didn’t push him, didn’t nudge him to answer him, but stood silently in his embrace, waiting for him to measure up what his heart wanted.

Finally, Dorian’s fingers slid up Cullen’s arms and folded over his wrists, holding him just as tightly as he held him. He opened his eyes and nudged his nose to Cullen’s.

“Stay,” he whispered.

The whisper made his heart lurch- was it joy? Fear? Apprehension? All that and more?

He kissed him, kissed him until the breath ran out of him, kissed him until they were both shaking and gasping, until he couldn’t remember what it was not to have the taste of him on his lips. 

The temptation was there as he led him to the bed- the temptation to peel aside the silk robe Dorian wore and sink into him, to smooth his hands over warm, shivering brown skin and press gentle kisses along behind them... But the timing wasn’t right, not here and not now. Not while Dorian looked at him with such vulnerable hurt in his eyes, wounded by his own misgivings and fears. He would not be like the other men in Dorian’s past, sneaking through hallways and taking their pleasure without taking into account his heart. 

So he led him to the bed and didn’t strip him bare, but he pulled aside the voluminous covers and crawled in behind him, trembling at the feel of Dorian’s legs entwined with his beneath the sheets, of his body hot and shivering beside him. 

And if he kissed him with a little more desperation than he had while they danced, if he held him a little tighter than he had while they stood, well...

He was only a man, and he only had so much resolve. 

Dorian didn’t help proceedings at all, soft and pliant beneath his mouth and his hands, gasping softly when Cullen kissed him a little too firmly; he wound his fingers through Cullen’s curls, gripping them tight. The more he kissed him, the tighter his fingers curled, until Cullen was gasping on his mouth and Dorian relaxed his hold.

After that, their kissing was slower, softer, still with enough warmth to curl Cullen’s toes, but not the wildfire that had raged through them both before. The kisses were slow, intoxicating- more comforting than arousing- and there finally reached a point where the breaths between each kiss dragged on longer each time, as sleep began to nip at their heels.

Dorian fell asleep with Cullen’s lips against his brow, and Cullen followed soon after.

***

Unending purple light, a cage without bars. Screams echoed around him, agonized and hysterical- he could taste blood in his mouth, he could feel _things_ on his skin, and some of them were under the armour- _under his skin_ \- and how was that _possible_ , his armour should’ve made him impervious, they were in his head and in the room and under his skin and he had to stand strong he had to endure he had to _fight go away go away go away go-_

He lurched upright with a whimpered grunt on his lips, twisting away from the creeping hands, falling sideways when he tried to rise to his feet only to remember too late that he was in a bed, and the sheets were wrapped almost painfully tight around one of his legs. 

“ _Cullen_.”

He went to lash out, went to throw his hands up to defend himself, but common sense managed to pierce through his panic at the last moment and his brain screamed _Dorian_ to him before he could do something regrettable. 

Panting, the sweat cold on his skin, he looked over to his right, to where Dorian sat with the robe puddled around his hips, his hand frozen where he’d been reaching for him. Scarcely any of the sheets were on Dorian’s side of the bed any longer, the vast majority of them twisted into some terrible cocoon around him. His poor sleeping habits weren’t so noticeable when he was alone in the bed, but seeing the mess he’d caused and the fuss, he felt a burning hot rush of shame. 

“I’m-”

“It’s alright,” Dorian said quietly, calmly. He reached for him slowly, no sudden movements, giving him plenty of time to ask him to stop. His hand, when it made contact with his skin, made him shudder, and he closed his eyes against the tears that pricked there. Dorian smoothed his hand up over his arm, calming circles that were grounding in a way nothing else was. “Is it the withdrawals?”

When Cullen looked at him sharply, he laughed softly, the murky light of predawn making a faint outline of him in the darkness. “I’m not an idiot, Cullen. Just because we never discussed it doesn’t mean I can’t tell you’re not taking it.”

Cullen shuddered, wilting back against the pillows. “It’s... certainly not helping,” he said awkwardly, his throat raw. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I... no. I can’t.” The shame burned brighter, and he felt the first tear escape from between his lashes. “I’m sorry.”

“You silly man, why on earth would you need to be sorry?” He felt a finger against his cheek, and looked up to see Dorian lying beside him, wiping away the tear with exquisite care. “Unless it’s for stealing all of the blankets, in which case, apology absolutely not accepted. You’re a southerner, you’re supposed to be acclimatized to the cold, the blankets should be mine by rights.”

It roused a weak laugh from him, which was undoubtedly what he’d wanted, and Cullen sighed. “I’m... still. I’m sorry.”

“One day we’re going to break you of your insurmountable need to apologize at the end of every sentence, and when we do, the Maker himself will return to the world, I’m sure of it.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against his brow. “Are you alright?”

“I’m... no. Not really.” He shivered, and turned into him. “I’m better for having you here though.”

Dorian wrapped his arms obligingly around him, nuzzling against his hair. “How long have you...?”

Cullen was silent for a long moment, his face pressed into his shoulder. “Eleven years,” he said finally. 

“And you’ve never talked to anyone?”

“What for?”

Above him, he heard Dorian sigh. “You beautiful, stupid man,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep, you’re safe now. I imagine we’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk of this in the future.”

Cullen took him at his suggestion, falling into exhausted sleep only a half minute later, but not before his brain could latch onto the last three words- _in the future._

Dorian wanted a future.

His tears had stopped by the time he fell asleep.


	3. The third is his shield arm

_Skyhold  
Three weeks later_

Warmth flitted over his face and his shoulder, warmer than the bed ought to be, and Dorian groaned softly, one eye sliding open with a wince. Sunlight was filtering in through the hole in the roof, motes of dust hanging heavy in the beams of light, and it was one such beam that had fallen across his side of the bed.

_Needs to get the blighted thing fixed,_ Dorian thought, rolling onto his back and blinking the sleep from his eyes, debating pulling the pillow over his face to block out the light so he could pass out again. _What exactly does he expect to do when it snows? I refuse to wear a cloak to bed._

The thought of turning in for the evening in nothing but his undergarments and an extravagant fur coat, like some mountain barbarian, had him snorting into his pillow, sleepily amused. He wondered what Cullen’s reaction would be if he came up to bed to find him reclining mostly naked and draped with furs.

He smiled sleepily to himself, tucking that thought away for later. 

Over the past few weeks they had shared a bed with growing frequency- mostly Cullen’s, truthfully; despite the hole in the roof and the constant chill, it did, at least, afford them a privacy that Dorian’s quarters lacked- and while they hadn’t done anything more than kiss and touch, Dorian found the intimacy to be more thrilling than anything he’d ever known. There was a certain deep seated pleasure to be had in returning bone weary from the world beyond Skyhold, tired and filthy and snappish from days on the road, and knowing that he had a place to go to, a _person_ to go to, who would light up as if his arrival was the most remarkable thing to happen to them that day. 

With Cullen, he could almost believe it was true, too. Not to say that Cullen lived an unremarkable life- quite the opposite- but that he was just so remarkably _genuine_ in all of their interactions; he didn’t think Cullen had it in him to be deceptive at all. A lifetime of masking his heart had left him rather jaded when it came to such open displays of relief and delight, but he had to say, watching Cullen’s face when he realised he was there, seeing the joy come to life in his eyes... There was no ulterior motive lurking, no predatory undercurrent of heat or sensuality. There was intimacy, yes- so much that it almost took Dorian’s breath away- but it was... sweet, tender, _unselfish_. 

_Fereldans_. They were so uncomplicated.

Or perhaps it was only Cullen.

It was strange, sharing a space with another person. He wasn’t used to cohabitation at all. Most of his affairs in Tevinter had ended after a single night, and his lovers had never invited him to stay. Even amongst married couples, shared quarters was an oddity, a sign of weakness and poverty, because what House worthy of a place in the magisterium would admit to such empty coffers that the lord and lady were required to cohabit?

But, if anything, it had given Dorian the opportunity to grow familiar with Cullen’s quirks and eccentricities.

For example, the man rose before the sun most days, something that Dorian found as baffling as it was irritating. Why would a man choose to rise so early, when the bed was so comfortable and he shared the space with such a devastatingly handsome mage? Even beyond his annoyance that Cullen chose not to stay and cuddle with him, there was the ever growing concern for his health, and the way he seemed determined to work himself as near to death as possible out of some misplaced belief that it would absolve him of the past that still haunted him. He needed rest, quite badly in fact, but even on nights when the nightmares were at their worst and his withdrawals left him shaking and clammy, he still stubbornly rose as early as possible to tend to his duties. 

Dorian was growing steadily less fond of _duty_ as the weeks went by. 

Cullen also took his exercise very seriously, working his muscles to the point of near exhaustion every night before bed even after a day spent moving amongst the troops and training the recruits. He still insisted upon his routine, and Dorian took every opportunity to tease him from the comfort of the bed, propped up against the pillows with a book while Cullen grunted and worked his way through however many hundred of something he was doing on the floor. Not that Dorian really _minded_ watching him when he was sweaty and his shirt clung to his body like a second skin and his curls tightened against his head and glistened with sweat, but-

He felt his cock stir against his thigh; he seemed to be losing his train of thought.

Ah, yes.

Cullen, as he had guessed when first meeting him, wasn’t like anyone he had ever known.

Dorian rolled onto his side and watched him, relishing the stillness of his face; the blankets had slid off of his torso at some point and bunched around his waist, and he was splayed on his back with his bare chest on display for Dorian to admire. He was beautiful in sleep, relaxed in a way he rarely was throughout the day- the way his lashes rested on his cheeks, not even fluttering when Dorian reached over and smoothed his hand over his hair, pushing the curls from his brow... he could have sworn he’d seen marble statues in Val Royeaux with less chiseled features.

But maybe he was a little biased, at this point. 

It was rare that he was awake before Cullen, rare that Cullen let the sun rise and touch his face. Dorian appreciated the way it made his skin and hair glow, the way it took the years away from him and the lines around his eyes seemed to be from laughter, rather than stress and fear. He was so utterly extraordinary, and Dorian felt his heart flutter in his chest as he watched him; he thought of endeavoring to wake up early every morning just to have this moment to himself... but he was a man given to his pleasures, and sleep was such a precious thing.

Maybe he could just tempt Cullen into sleeping late with him each morning- he could be very tempting when he set his mind to it, after all... why, just two nights earlier, when their languid kisses had turned heated and urgent, Dorian had worked Cullen into such a frenzy that he’d shuddered and cried out against his mouth. Both of them fully clothed, and he’d still wrung pleasure out of him (quite by accident, of course, Dorian had been just as caught up in the moment as Cullen had, and when he’d pulled away and realised what Cullen’s cry had indicated, what the growing look of red-faced mortification was in response to, he’d been ridiculously, ludicrously smug about it).

Lost in his thoughts, Dorian didn’t even notice Cullen had awakened until he felt his stubble scratch his palm when Cullen turned his face to press a kiss against the skin.

Slumberous golden eyes blinked at him from beneath long lashes. “You’re up early,” Cullen mumbled, smiling sleepily. “I’ll have to alert the crier.”

Dorian smirked. “My, my,” he said, shivering as Cullen kept nuzzling at his palm and his fingers. “Barely awake and already full of sass, I see. Someone has to do something about that smart mouth of yours, Commander.”

Cullen leaned over just enough to wrap an arm around Dorian’s waist and pull him towards him until he was flush against him. Dorian moaned softly as the embrace showed him that he wasn’t the only one with an overeager cock. 

“I imagine there’s something to occupy my mouth, isn't there?” Cullen asked softly, nuzzling along the edge of his jaw.

Dorian smiled, delighted as he slid his hand over Cullen’s hip and down towards his ass.

“Let’s see,” he murmured, dipping his mouth down to capture his.

***

Apparently, Dorian wasn’t the only one with a reason to be smug anymore- he couldn’t say he was displeased with the outcome, quite the opposite. But Cullen’s look of ruthless delight in bed that morning had been like a gauntlet thrown, and he _had_ to get him back for it.

Their mutual agreement not to push forward with sex was forcing him to be remarkably creative in his play, and if he was going to outwit Cullen he had to consider his options carefully. 

After such a splendid start to the morning, Dorian didn’t think anything could spoil his mood, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed when Grand Enchanter Fiona cleared her throat behind him at one point because he was standing in front of one of the bookshelves _singing_ under his breath.

His choice of song- some bawdy Orlesian tavern ditty- left something to be desired, perhaps, but he was in a good mood damn it, and not even the knowing smile and raised eyebrows of the Grand Enchanter herself was enough to dampen it. 

That was before the Inquisitor came to see him.

He heard her voice echoing up softly from below as she stopped to chat with Solas, but that was hardly an event out of the ordinary so he thought nothing of it. When her footsteps scuffed heavily against the stairs, as if she was almost reluctant to climb, he paid a little more attention, settling his book on his lap and waiting for her to round the corner to his alcove. 

He knew as soon as he saw her that she didn’t have good news. 

“Oh, no,” he said preemptively, holding up his hands in warning. “I don’t like the look of that face- that’s a face that says ‘ _oh, beloved and handsome Dorian, I’m ever so desperate for your help, I’ve decided I simply must go and fight a dragon in a swamp on an island, will you please submit yourself to the horrors of sea travel and let the fetid swamp water ruin yet another pair of good boots to come and help me?_ ’” When she didn’t even laugh, he felt his stomach drop. “Alright, out with it- what’s wrong?”

Her eyes were soft with sympathy and pity, and when she tried to tell him what had worked her into such a state, her voice caught on the words. “Dorian,” she said softly, hesitating for a few long seconds before dropping to a crouch beside his chair. Instead of trying to explain, she slipped a letter into his hand and squeezed his fingers gently when she wrapped them around the parchment.

She swallowed. “You should read this,” she said.

Dorian attempted a roguish smile, even as his stomach continued to roil like he was back on the wretched boat across the Waking Sea again. “My dear, you are beginning to alarm me,” he said charmingly, squeezing her fingers in return. “Have the Red Templars intercepted our supply lines and cut us off from those delicious candied nuts we were getting from Antiva? Oh, have you finally realised that I’m nothing more than a dashing Venatori spy, here to report your every-”

“ _Dorian_ ,” she said, sounding immensely pained. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. 

He held her gaze for a moment, then glanced down at his hands. “I apologize,” he muttered; he unrolled the parchment and held up the letter to read- and felt his carefully constructed little fantasy of life on the wild frontier of the world crumble to dust. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, her fingers tight over his. “I have no idea- I don’t even know how he _found_ you-”

“My father is nothing if not a resourceful and determined man,” he said, and he barely recognised the hoarse voice as his own. “And I’ve not precisely been in hiding.”

There was a fire under his skin, burning hotter with every word he read. He felt like he was boiling, like his flesh was melting away, and he was shaking violently by the time he got to the end of the page. When the parchment began to smoke between his fingers, she hastily rescued it from his grasp as he lurched to his feet, half panicked and half towering rage, because how dare he, _how dare he_ act as if this were just a moment of childish whimsy, as if Dorian had flounced off on a whim, as if-

He raked his fingers through his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he fought back the tide of self loathing and hate and fear that twisted itself around his gut like a choking weed. 

“Dorian?” Her voice came as if from a million miles away, small and hesitant. “We don’t have to go, we can ignore it.”

“ _We_?” he snarled, rounding on her with so much fury in him that she flinched; that pulled him up short, the shame at frightening a dear friend throwing cold water over the heat in his belly. He wilted, staggering back a step until his back hit the bookshelf, covering his face with his hands. He counted to ten, waiting for his temper to settle, and then counted to ten again when that hadn’t quite worked. “What do you mean _we_?” he asked finally, his voice raw.

“Exactly what I said- we don’t have to deal with it if you don’t want to.”

He lowered his hands and stared at her. “But...” He fumbled for the right words. “But this is _my_ mess, why would you-”

“Dorian,” she said sharply, a glint in her eye that only came out when she was slipping into the role of Inquisitor. “You are a valued member of my team, and more than that, you are my _friend_. If I was in trouble, would you drop everything to help me?”

He swallowed. “In a heartbeat,” he said in a small voice.

“Then why do you think I wouldn’t do _precisely_ the same for you?”

When she left him a short time later, they had the beginnings of a plan in place, and Dorian’s head was reeling; he was too agitated to remain still, too on edge to stay in the library where everyone was throwing nervous glances in his direction when they thought he couldn’t see them- and just when they’d started to calm down on all that ‘terrifying blood magister’ nonsense, too. He had to get out, away from prying eyes, somewhere in the fresh air, somewhere he could have a breakdown in private thinking about the possibility of being chained and gagged and carted back to Tevinter against his will, simply to-

He felt very abruptly ill, his head swimming, and he hurried down the stairs and across the rotunda, ignoring Solas’ calls of greeting and instead pushing open the door to the overhead walkway. 

He didn’t necessarily _plan_ to end up at Cullen’s quarters, but he was already on the walkway and it was just too convenient; he didn’t want to admit to himself that he’d gravitated there out of fear, out of a panic that if his father knew about _him_ then he knew about _Cullen_ too. He couldn’t lose this one little piece of happiness that he’d carved out for himself, against all the odds. 

Although Maker’s Breath, he could already feel it crumbling around him. 

He slammed open the door, hard enough that a shower of dust and mortar chips fell down from the rafters above, and stalked inside, too distraught to even announce himself or knock or act like a damned civilized human being. Cullen was seated at his desk, head buried in paperwork yet again, and he jerked backwards in surprise at his violent entrance. 

Dorian was just as horrified to see Cullen flinch as he had been to see the Inquisitor flinch, but he pushed onwards, slapping the letter down on the desk between them. “Good news!” he said dramatically, aware of how bitter and scathing his voice sounded but unable to stop himself. “My father plans on having me dragged back to Tevinter by my ear like I’m some sort of wayward child.”

The papers on Cullen’s desk teetered for a moment and then went slowly cascading to the floor in a waterfall of parchment. Cullen watched them go with a look of abject distress, running a hand up into his hair as he sat and watched in silence as the floor of his office was slowly carpeted in paper. He took a deep breath, eyes closed, and Dorian felt intensely brittle as he waited for his response, as if the wrong word from Cullen would shatter him into a thousand pieces. 

“Dorian,” Cullen said quietly, opening his eyes again and looking up into his face, “explain to me why this is good news.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” _Fasta vass, shut up you fool._ “Finally we can put an end to this charade that I was ever useful to anyone, that I was ever considered an intelligent adult of sound mind capable of making my own life choices-”

“ _Dorian_.”

“-or that anything that I ever wanted for myself mattered at all.”

“ _Dorian!_ ” He snapped his mouth shut at Cullen’s half shout, tears already burning in his eyes; _kaffas_ , but he’d been so stupid, so _fucking_ stupid to think this was something he could keep for himself.

The worst thing was, he didn’t know whether he meant Cullen, or whether he meant the stunningly awful secret that he’d carried with him from Tevinter. 

Cullen leaned forward slowly, until he was in Dorian’s line of sight again. “Dorian,” he said, his voice low, “look at me.”

He was being petty and argumentative, he knew it; but he was _frightened_ , almost as frightened as when he’d first learned what his father intended to do to him in the first place. He pushed off of the desk and spun around, turning his back on Cullen instead as he dug his fingers into his hair- it was something to do with them, at the very least.

There was a moment of heavy silence- if he discounted the frenzied drumming of his own heartbeat- and then he heard the very deliberate sound of the letter being unfolded, the paper crackling loudly. Dorian closed his eyes, and hoped very fervently that the foundations of the tower would suddenly shift, so that he could be swallowed up by any resulting chasm in the earth. 

_Cullen was going to realise the truth, Cullen was going to reel back in horror, Cullen was going to look at him like he was shit on the bottom of his shoe, Cullen was-_

The chair squeaked as Cullen pushed himself away from the desk and climbed to his feet, and Dorian tried not to flinch, tried not to tense. The creak of leather and clink of armor sounded as he came around the desk, and the subtle crunch of paper as he walked across the sea of documents and reports scattered over the floor. He passed close enough to him that Dorian could feel him, but he didn’t touch him.

After a moment, he heard the quiet creak of the door, and the crunch of the lock turning. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know that Cullen came to stand before him a moment later.

“Can I touch you?” Cullen asked quietly.

The question startled him. “Why?”

He sighed, and he was standing close enough that Dorian could feel the soft fanning touch of his breath over his mouth. “Because I want to hug you,” he said. “But I won’t touch you without your consent.”

Dorian felt the sharper edges of his panic ease, and he wilted. “I...” He swallowed, and slowly- awkwardly- lowered his arms back to his sides, his eyes still firmly closed. With his eyes closed, he didn’t have to see the look on Cullen’s face, and he didn’t have to deal with the pity he knew had to be there. “Alright.”

Cullen moved slowly, and gently- nothing that could make him feel rushed or trapped. He almost resented him for his clear concern, because it made him feel even _more_ like the petulant brat that he was being, but then Cullen’s arms were around him and there was a hand on the back of his head encouraging him to rest against his shoulder, and it was just... a little too hard to feel so many things at once. 

He melted against him, all of the fight going out of him; Cullen recognised it, and tightened his arms around him, keeping him on his feet. Dorian buried his face in the side of his neck, breathing deeply of him- he smelled of soap, and leather, and the faint musty odour of the damnable fur pauldrons, but he smelled _safe_ and _familiar_ and he couldn’t think of anything worse than waking up one morning and not having him there within reach.

After a few long moments, he felt Cullen’s mouth against his ear. “Take a deep breath,” he murmured. “It’s going to be alright, I promise you that.”

Dorian felt his foolish heart leap at those words, and for once in his life he wanted to believe that it actually might be.

“So. Your...” He hesitated. Dorian had very pointedly never spoken much of his family, beyond the fact that he had one, obviously, and that they were relatively unhappy with him. As to why that could be, Dorian had never elaborated, and Cullen- bless him- had never pressed the issue. “Your father? Is coming here?”

“Hah!” Feigning laughter was a better option than giving in to the tears that threatened. “I sincerely doubt the man would bother coming to collect me _himself_.” 

He could hear the sneer in his voice, the intense and overwhelming bitterness, but what could he do about it? His father had planted that bitterness in him, and he was incapable of simply shrugging it off, not when it had taken root so deeply within him. 

“No, he has one of his ‘ _retainers_ ’ waiting for me in Redcliffe. No doubt he plans to knock me over the head and take me back to Tevinter without a fucking care for how I feel on the matter. He doesn’t care that I might have made friends here, that I am endeavoring to right a thousand wrongs, or that I’ve... that we’ve...”

_Just say it, you coward._

The silence dragged on as Dorian tried to force the words into the open, and after several agonizing heartbeats, he felt the subtle touch of Cullen’s lips against his temple. “Alright then, tell me what to expect from all of this- is this a scheme that Leliana’s people uncovered? Are we expecting them to attempt to infiltrate Skyhold? Why have they been so direct in contacting us?”

Dorian breathed out slowly against his throat, trying not to feel the wall of guilt at his back. “No schemes,” he answered. His voice was a bit hoarse from his shouting, and he tried to make it more confident, but all of the white hot anger had fled from him, leaving him feeling cold and shaky. “There’s no scheme, at least not that will cause any trouble for the Inquisition. It’s not my father’s way to encourage a scene.”

He _almost_ continued.

It was on the tip of his tongue, the desire to blurt it all out and let Cullen know of the brutal, barbaric act that had forced him to separate himself from his homeland and his family and everything that he had known and loved; but he couldn’t quite form the words. He wanted to trust him with the truth, he wanted to cling to him and know that Cullen would hold him just as tightly in return, to know that when Cullen reeled back in horror it would be out of sympathy for him, and not because he was in agreement with his father. 

He wanted to trust him, but... he’d trusted his father, without question, up until the moment when his father had looked at him in disgust and tried to unmake him.

Dorian pulled away from Cullen, only slightly, only enough that he could look up into his face; Cullen looked back in silence, his expression gravely solemn, and Dorian couldn’t decide what that expression meant. He felt suddenly small and fragile, like a child. And that, he supposed, was the worst of what his father had done; he had made him someone small and brittle and unable to trust even the most gentle of hands.

Flicking his eyes to Cullen’s, Dorian asked hesitantly “Do you believe I should go?”

Cullen couldn’t have looked more stunned if he’d suddenly revealed himself to be three nugs cleverly stacked inside a mage cloak. “Whatever for?” he blurted out, his hands tightening noticeably where they rested on his back. “Dorian, what good does it do meeting with these people, if you truly believe their only purpose is to take you-”

He hesitated, stumbling to a halt, and for a heartbreaking moment, Dorian knew he’d meant to say _home_ \- to take him back _home_ , because this could never be his home, not here, not with Cullen.

“-back,” he said instead, “then I don’t imagine they’re open to reason. We can send them a strongly worded missive from the Herald herself if we need to dissuade them thoroughly.”

He sighed, and he looked like he’d aged ten years since the morning. “But it doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said softly, leaning in to rest his forehead against his. “This isn’t about me- this is about you and the matters you have to settle with your family. Do you _want_ to meet with your father’s retainer, for your sake?”

He had no idea what he wanted, to be honest. No, that wasn’t entirely true- he wanted Cullen to tell him that everything was going to be okay, to hold him and fight for him and make it not so terrifying to say those few little words. But that wasn’t the question that Cullen had asked him, about what would be best for him; he knew that if he didn’t go and meet whoever waiting for him in Redcliffe, he’d spend all of his time regretting it.

This was his chance to sever his ties, as permanently as he could. It was the only chance he had to tell his father, even if it was only through his lackey, that he was more than his legacy.

“What I’ve wanted has never mattered much,” Dorian said. “No one has ever even _asked_ me.” 

“I’m asking you now.”

He laughed, somewhat bitterly, and scrunched his nose a little as if he was fighting off a sneeze; really he just didn’t want to deal with the tears stinging behind his eyelids. “The last thing I want to do is walk into a trap,” he said. “I don’t... I don’t want to go back.”

“Then the solution is relatively straight forward- we go to Redcliffe and we tell them you aren’t going.”

“No, it’s not-” He bit his tongue, amused despite the ball of misery in his stomach. “You are an _insufferable_ optimist, you know that?”

Cullen’s quiet chuckle set him more at ease than he could have believed possible. “I can only try,” he said, his voice soft. 

Dorian sighed, and closed his eyes; he wanted to stay like this, warm and safe in the circle of Cullen’s arms, not having to worry about the future, not having to think about the past, just... safe. “I assume that, if I were to elect to go, that there would be people there to assist me if things go sideways?” He swallowed down the emotions wrapped tight around his throat. “People with swords, preferably?”

“If the Inquisitor herself has not already pledged her support, then you shall certainly have mine,” Cullen said in a low, urgent voice. “Regardless of what happens, you do not walk alone, Dorian.” 

It was not _I love you, Dorian,_ but he felt it all the way to his bones just the same, and he shivered, sliding his arms around Cullen’s shoulders and clinging tight to him. 

With Cullen’s support, Dorian felt that he could relax, at least some. Trust was such a painful thing to offer up, to leave himself so utterly vulnerable, but when it came to Cullen... just one look into his eyes and he was a fool, tripping over his own feet to offer him his heart. Not only because he was so beautiful and kind and loyal, and not because he was made of harder steel than his shield- Dorian knew that the reason he trusted him so readily and so completely was simple.

Because he _loved_ him.

Maker’s Breath, he couldn’t even say when it had happened, whether it had been something he’d known all along or whether their night together had made it undeniable, or whether it was something that time and Cullen’s gentle pursuit of his heart had finally made clear for him. The depth and breadth of his love for Cullen was so familiar to him now, as if it had been a part of him all along, and the shock of acknowledging it had worn off. Whenever he was with him, he knew his love for him was in his eyes, naked and raw, and he knew Cullen could see everything.

But still he stood between Dorian and the things that would hurt him.

“Come with me,” Dorian said, murmuring the words into his skin. His voice remained hoarse, and softer than when he’d entered Cullen’s office. He rested his brow to Cullen’s, sliding his fingers through his hair. “I will _not_ return to Tevinter, not now. Not when-”

_I have you_ , he almost said, but he couldn’t quite form the words.

“-I still have so much to do here."

It was not _I love you too, Cullen_ , but it was the closest he could bring himself to say right now. 

Cullen seemed to know it too, if the way his fingers dug in tight to his hips was anything to go by. “I swear to you, Dorian,” Cullen said, voice low, “you will have me there in whatever capacity you require. As Commander, as your sword arm, as your friend...”

_As your lover_ hung unsaid in the air between them. 

“Whatever you believe the situation calls for, you will not have to fear your father’s men, or some Venatori plot. I _swear_ to you, you will be safe.”

Dorian kissed him, his fingers knotting tighter in Cullen’s hair and his body pressing hard against him. Whatever happened, he believed Cullen when he swore that he would be there to support him, and that no one would be allowed to hurt him. For once, he placed himself in another’s hands without fear that they would fail him and let him slip away like sand through their fingers.

And, again, for the first time, Dorian didn’t care who might be watching when he kissed Cullen and tangled himself in his arms.

***

_Redcliffe  
One week later_

“ _Dorian!_ ” Cullen shouted, his voice half hysterical as he called after him outside the Gull and Lantern tavern; his head was still reeling in utter, skin-crawling horror at hearing the truth about Dorian’s falling out with his family, and he felt like _he_ needed a steadying drink.

He couldn’t even imagine what Dorian was feeling- except that it suddenly made so many things about their odd little relationship make painful, _horrifying_ sense. 

A hand on his wrist stopped him from chasing after him, and he looked down to see the Inquisitor with an iron grip on him, her face set like stone. _Angry_ didn’t even begin to describe her expression. “A moment, if you please, Commander,” she said, her voice deceptively calm.

“But, Dorian-”

“Isn’t going to go far, and you may go to him in a moment. For now, you need to be the commander of my armies and talk to me as a tactician, not a frantic lover.”

Cullen’s head snapped around, a panicked look in his eyes, and she made a scoffing noise. “Oh please, there’s no point in dancing around the point. I’ve no interest in needling you for details.”

“But, how did you know?” He felt like his face was about to catch fire.

She stared flatly at him. “If you _honestly_ believe the two of you have been subtle these past few weeks, then may I just say I’m _immensely_ relieved that you are _not_ my spymaster.” She sighed in frustration and looked away, scrubbing a hand over her face and making an irritated noise under her breath. “But that’s hardly the point. My question is- is the road between here and Skyhold safe enough to warrant travel without an escort?”

He frowned, confused, glancing longingly down the hill towards the harbour; judging by the chatter from the crowds, Dorian had gone in that direction. “Relatively so, pending any reports that may have come in after we left last week, but why-”

She held up her hand to interrupt him. “You are relieved of duty for the immediate future, Commander,” she said brusquely. “I will see the soldiers returned to Skyhold, and you may resume your role once you yourself return. But for the moment, go with Dorian and give him the space he needs, and you are not to return under any circumstances until Dorian feels comfortable enough to do so.”

“But-”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she said pointedly, and her expression softened. “Just go to him, please. The Inquisition will survive without you for three or four days, and Dorian deserves to have those days. _You_ deserve to have them. Take care of him.”

And saying that, she reached up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, then turned on her heel and marched down the hill towards the town gates where their soldiers were encamped. 

In the opposite direction, heading towards the shores of the lake, Dorian pushed mindlessly through the crowded streets of Redcliffe. It wasn’t so bad these days, not since the mages had packed up camp and journeyed to join the Inquisition- back in the days when Dorian had been hiding in the hills outside town, and scrounging together what pathetic excuses for meals he could, trailing after Alexius out of the belief that he was in this country to do _good_.

So much had changed, and so much hadn’t.

Dorian didn’t know where he was moving, but all that mattered was that he was moving. There was a sea of faces around him, it seemed- some concerned, some disinterested, but in the blur of motion they all looked the same to him.

Strangers’ faces. He was far from home, far from everything he knew and cared about and had been taught he needed to survive. What was _home_? What was he supposed to call the grand estates back in Minrathous, as opposed to the space he’d painstakingly carved out for himself here?

His heart was pounding in his ears, in his throat; the bile in his stomach was churning and threatening to make him gag. He hadn’t been this panicked in what felt like an age, but he knew when it was he’d felt like this. How horrifyingly coincidental that his father had been involved both times; his father had loved him, cruelly. He had wanted to change him, to mold him into someone more palatable for his legacy. The fact that Dorian had begged him, that he had pleaded with him, hadn’t mattered.

He had made a mockery of their great House and their vaulted name and he needed to be corrected.

No doubt Cullen understood, now, why he flinched when he moved to touch and kiss him so near to others. It wasn’t only that his homeland was against the idea of two men being affectionate in public, it was that his father had attached so immense, towering shame to the very idea of it. It was his father who had taught him that he was something broken, something _disgusting_.

Now that Cullen knew the truth of how deep his fear of intimacy went, now that he had seen him from his father’s eyes... Dorian couldn’t imagine Cullen would want anything to do with him.

His steps were aimless, stumbling. He knew only that he had to get _away_ \- away from his father, from the Inquisition, from the ugly shame of everything. Away from Cullen, and the inevitable moment when he turned to him with disgust in his eyes instead of adoration. 

Unaware that he was crying, that he was shoving roughly past people, Dorian found himself staggering on the uneven ground at the docks; he stumbled at one point and fell flat, the air slamming out of his lungs as he wheezed and crawled back to his hands and knees. Someone might have asked if he needed help, it was hard to say- but he climbed to his feet and kept going until he ran out of walkway, and stood looking down at the water as it sloshed gently at the pier.

He thought, hysterically irrational, of jumping in, but panicked laughter chased the thought away. Instead, he sat down, with no mind for the filthy boards under him, and dangled his feet over the water. His palms were grazed from where he’d fallen, and there was a tear on his pants- it was possible there was even blood in his mouth, he wasn’t sure. 

He wasn’t sure he cared, either. 

For Cullen, it wasn’t hard to find him- he’d left a trail of scattered townsfolk in his wake, whispering and tittering to each other and peering further down the street towards the harbour. Cullen gritted his teeth and pushed his way through the crowds, as politely as he could given the circumstances, but he would be the first to admit some of his sounds out of his mouth were less like words and more like snarls. 

He was shaking, he was so _angry_ ; now that the shock had passed, the initial stomach churning horror of blood magic and mind control, the only thing left in him was an earth shattering concern for Dorian and a towering inferno of wrath directed at his father. The Herald had forbidden him from returning to confront Halward, far too savvy for her own good- the Inquisition could not afford to be implicated in the downfall of yet another powerful Tevinter House. 

That did not stop the violent fantasies that played out behind his eyes, however.

How... how _could_ he? How could he look past the love his son had for him, the desperate longing to please him and just make him proud, and see only failure, something that needed correcting? How could he look past the immense love and kindness in his heart, his intelligence and his humour and his sheer cleverness, and find him wanting?

How could he look into the face of someone who loved him and find only fault?

_No one has ever asked me_ \- the words made horrifying sense now, and knowing the context behind such a statement made Cullen feel them as surely as a knife to the heart. The thought of Dorian so utterly dismissed by the very people who should have loved and nurtured him, the thought of them dismissing his brilliance and his wit and his kindness simply because he did not fit into some shallow, predetermined mold... it was as heartbreaking as it was infuriating. Having to constantly hear Dorian belittle himself in casual conversation, as if he didn’t even notice he was doing it, was heartbreaking and infuriating, and he wanted more than anything to put a stop to it. 

And now he could see why he did it. 

The docks thumped under his armoured feet as he slowed, aware he was out of breath and panting heavily; he probably looked a sight, red faced and wild eyed and furious and sweaty. The townsfolk, he saw, had very carefully removed themselves from the immediate area- they’d seen too many mages gone bad in Redcliffe to want to risk their lives just for a chance at seeing some drama to gossip about later.

On the very last pier, right out over the water, the hunched and shaking form of Dorian made his heart break. He approached him slowly, crouching down behind him so as not to alarm him. 

“Dorian,” he whispered softly, reaching out to brush his fingers against his shoulder.

Dorian flinched under Cullen’s hand. He didn’t pull away, but his skin crawled under his fingers and he made a choked noise in his throat.

Why would Cullen want to _touch_ him? Why had he even followed him? Dorian had provided him with the perfect chance to slip away from him and make it known everything was through between them, so why hadn’t he taken it? The confrontation with his father had shown Cullen precisely what he was dealing with, so why was he still reaching out, still so eager to touch and comfort him?

Why didn’t he see how filthy he was? How dirty and small and ashamed and broken?

His father had seen it, so why couldn’t Cullen?

“Why are you here?” Dorian asked. He meant to sound gruff, even remonstrative, but instead he sounded hollow, _pitiful._

Maker, he wished he’d never come South. He wished he’d never gotten Cullen tangled up in all of this.

He felt the hope in his chest wither away and die.

Cullen licked his lips, doing his best to speak in a steady voice. “Do you... not want me here?” he asked tentatively, his voice wobbling despite his best efforts. “Maker, Dorian, how could I _not_ be here? Where else would I be?”

He eased from the crouch onto his knees, his hand going carefully flat atop Dorian’s shoulder. “There is nowhere I would be right now but with you, Dorian, but if you want me to... if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. I want to stay but I’ll go, if that’s what you need.”

Still Dorian didn’t turn around, and he felt tears pricking at his eyes. He was babbling now, he knew he was, but he couldn’t stop. “I won’t go unless you tell me to go, Dorian, I don’t want-” He took a shaky breath, and ran his fingers up the line of his throat to brush against his cheek. “Nothing I heard in there changes _anything_ about how I feel about you. I _love_ you, Dorian.”

_I love you._

Dorian sucked in a breath and held it, his ribs still aching where he’d fallen. It wasn’t _I’ll stand with you_ , it wasn’t _I love your passion_ , it wasn’t anything but the breathtaking, devastating truth. No one had said those words to him, not the way Cullen did. They had been breathed against his ear in the middle of the night while his lover moved between his thighs, but once things had ended the words had turned cold and hollow.

When Cullen said them... they were warm, earnest, nakedly honest. Dorian wanted to turn to him and kiss him until his mouth was bruised and raw, to tell him again and again and again that he loved him back.

He also wanted to turn to him and tell him never to say it again. It was dangerous. It was uncharted territory. And while Dorian was usually very bold with the unknown, he didn’t know how to navigate love at all.

“ _Don’t,_ ” Dorian said hoarsely. He let the word hang between them for a while, not sure if he meant to tell him not to leave or not to love him. He didn’t know which was safer. Swallowing down the emotion, thick in his throat, he whispered. “Don’t go. Please.”

Cullen’s chest felt too tight, like there were iron bands wrapped around him and slowly constricting him, and his eyes were burning; he shuddered and leaned forward until his forehead was resting against the space between Dorian’s shoulder blades. He could feel him shaking, feel the brutal tension in his muscles, and he slid both hands up onto his shoulders, as if to soothe him or ground him or just remind him he wasn’t alone. 

“I’m not going,” he whispered, over and over like a mantra. “I’m not leaving you, Dorian.”

Maker, his heart was so treacherously foolish; not even ten minutes free of his father, and it fluttered in his chest at Cullen’s heartfelt words. Instinct wanted him to pull away from him, put some space between them lest anyone see how Cullen clung to him and how happy Dorian was to have him so close. Instinct wanted him to give in to the panic and the shame, and push him away. With all of his willpower, he fought against the instinct, reaching up with shaking hands to lace their fingers together instead of tossing them from his shoulders.

He kissed Cullen’s knuckles softly, shivering when he made his promises, warm and sweet, between his shoulderblades.

All he wanted now was to go somewhere and be alone with him. He wanted as much distance between himself and this place as he could possibly get. Skyhold was as far from civilization as Dorian could imagine, but it still felt too crowded, too stifling; filled with too many whispers and eyes.

“I want to go,” Dorian said listlessly, watching his reflection in the water; he couldn’t ever remember feeling this exhausted, this wrung out, but the encounter with his father had utterly drained him. “I don’t want to be here, Cullen.”

The defeat in his voice was heartbreaking, and Cullen squeezed his fingers tight with his, eyes closed as he rested against his back. Impulse fluttered through him, and his eyes snapped open again, fumbling to his feet and wincing at the crick in his knees as he did so; when Dorian glanced over his shoulder at him, eyes almost blank, he held out a hand and pulled him to his feet a moment after, keeping his hand held tightly in his even after he found his balance. 

“I want you to have something,” he said, digging into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out a well worn coin. He pressed it into Dorian’s palm and closed his fingers around it. 

Dorian’s expression was still numb. “A coin?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“My brother gave it to me the day I left for the templars,” he said, “said it would bring me luck. I mean, I’m not supposed to believe in such things, but... I survived Kinloch Hold, and Kirkwall, and then Haven- and then I should have died in the snow, in the mountains, and you saved me.”

He took a shaky breath. “I... you _saved_ me, Dorian. Not just from the storm. And I don’t need luck when I've got you here.”

Dorian swallowed awkwardly, his face unchanged but for the tear that rolled down his cheek, closely followed by another. Why did it hurt so much, to see him so devoted in his affections? There was too much emotion surging through him for him to comment on how ridiculously romantic Cullen was being. He wanted to comment that Varric would love this sort of story, and Cullen had better not tell the dwarf about it lest they be a star-crossed pair of lovers in his next novel, but-

Cullen was so sincere, so sweet, so eager to please him, to take care of him. He was giving him something that meant more to him than he could even put into words. A gift from someone who had loved him before the Circle, before Kirkwall, before everything. A gift that had been meant to bring him luck, and Dorian supposed, if he could suspend his disbelief for a moment, luck had been on his side the past ten years. Obviously Cullen had been through much, but he lived, still, and as long as he lived, he was lucky.

Dorian was lucky, to have him with him.

He folded his fingers over the coin, not trusting himself to speak. Dorian was sure if he tried to form words, they would come broken and trembling.

Instead, he stepped closer to him, moving himself into Cullen’s arms and tucking his face against his throat. Whatever happened after, happened. All that mattered to him, in that moment, was that he was as close to Cullen as he could be.

“Thank you, amatus,” Dorian whispered.

Cullen wrapped his arms as tightly around him as he dared, crushing him to him; one hand on the back of his head as he cradled him to him, the other flat against his back as he clung to him. His eyes were stinging and his cheeks were damp, but that hardly mattered as he breathed him in. 

“Nothing that your father did to you, or- _wanted_ to do to you, none of that changes _anything_ ,” he said urgently, voice low. “I didn’t fall in love with the man your father _wants_ you to be, I fell in love with the man you _are_. And when I’m with you, I don’t feel anything other than pride, and awe, and happiness, and-”

He swallowed abruptly, pressing back the tears as he hid his face in Dorian’s hair. “I _love_ you, Dorian.”

Those words again...

Dorian bit his lip and squeezed his eyes closed even tighter, pressing his face as close against his throat as he could. He wanted to say them back so badly, to have them echo Cullen’s and set his heart at ease. But all he could think of was his father, of how he’d seen in him something broken, something unnatural, something that had to be hidden.

He didn’t want to hide his feelings for Cullen, but his throat felt too tight and all he could do was cling tighter to him.

When he could speak past the lump in his throat, Dorian pulled back just enough to look up at him and press his lips to the stubbled edge of his chin.

“Take me away from here, amatus,” Dorian said. “This town has been the source of enough misery, I think.”


	4. And fourth is his heart

The journey back to Skyhold would’ve taken them three or four days, at a brisk pace- but he’d been all but ordered to take his time, and give Dorian the space to heal before being thrown back into the chaos and the gossip of the castle and their campaign. Their absence this past week would not have gone unnoticed, even more so for the Herald to return without either of them in tow, and he was gritting his teeth in preparation for the inevitable sea of whispers and giggles and hushed conversations when he returned with only Dorian by his side. 

But... he was determined to walk through the gate with his head held high, and Dorian’s hand held in his. If Dorian would permit it, of course, but he had no intention of hiding his growing regard for him unless he specifically asked him not to. He loved him, almost terrifyingly so, but he would face that terrifying possibility with eyes wide open and joy in his heart. After the confrontation with Lord Pavus in Redcliffe, he knew he no longer had anything to fear about admitting the depth of his affections to the world. 

If Dorian would permit it, however, was the crux of the matter. He glanced sideways at him as they rode along in companionable silence, ambling along the lake road with no great urgency in their pace. He’d been a shattered and broken man after the encounter with his father, and his interactions had been almost stilted, as if he was struggling to respond in any kind of emotionally rational way. In the long hours since, he’d reached a level of calm that at least soothed some of Cullen’s worries, but he was still withdrawn and quiet.

Cullen still couldn’t tell if he’d rebuffed him when he’d told him he loved him- the agonized whisper of ‘ _don’t_ ’ still rang in his ears, hours later, and even if Dorian had corrected himself a moment later and begged with him not to leave him alone, it was still a raw ache within him. 

Dorian had his head down, trusting Cullen to lead them and trusting his horse to follow Cullen’s lead, a book open in his hands and a faint smile playing over his lips. He hadn’t expected him to be smiling so soon after the trauma back in Redcliffe, so he clucked his tongue quietly at his horse and pulled even with Dorian.

“What are you reading?”

Dorian looked up from the book, shaking himself as if he’d been a million miles away. “Hmm?”

“What are you reading? You had a smile on your face, I just wondered what it was making you laugh.”

“Oh, that,” Dorian said, smiling. “It’s a book I stole from our own dear Madame de Fer before we left, one of those tomes the Inquisitor recovered for her for her Circle restoration project- utter nonsense, that- but I was curious to see what she considered essential reading for her future ducklings.”

“And obviously it’s a source of great amusement for you?”

Dorian’s smile widened and he shook his head. “It’s ridiculous, completely ridiculous- Marsden’s theory of combustion physics is _decades_ out of date, _completely_ undone by some of the more recent studies by Videlius and Quorrus via the Imperial Academy of Physical Sciences in Minrathous, but apparently acknowledging the superiority of those blasphemous Tevinter heathens is just not _done_ , even in the pursuit of enlightenment.”

“That doesn’t sound like magic at all.”

“The world _is_ magic, amatus- science is mankind’s attempt to make sense of the chaos that surrounds us, to find meaning and wonder in the most absurd of the Maker’s creations. Science is the magic that all people can tap into, not just those of us _bred_ for it.”

There was a vague hint of distaste in his voice at the end, and Cullen fought the urge to sigh as he contemplated how best to turn Dorian’s thoughts away from his father again. “But you said it was outdated?” At Dorian’s nod, he asked “Then why are you reading it? Or smiling, I suppose?”

“It amuses me, seeing how outlandishly inaccurate it is.”

Cullen watched him, and smiled to himself. “I like seeing you smile,” he said.

Dorian’s gaze snapped up from the book to him, and the spark of vulnerability was back in his eyes. His jaw was tense, his throat working as if he were struggling to speak, before he finally replied. “You... give me a lot of reasons to smile,” he said at last, nothing suave or charming at all in the way he spoke. 

Cullen reached across the space between their horses and took his hand in his, squeezing tight on his fingers. “I am glad to,” he said earnestly. “We’ve got a few hours of sunlight left, but if memory serves, there’s a roadside inn a few miles along. We can stop early and get a quiet night in.”

Honestly, Cullen had no right being so effortlessly charming and so amazingly sweet- he’d grown up on stories of those wild Fereldan barbarians at the far end of the world, who had only ever threatened to topple the great Imperium by force of numbers alone, and yet here he was having a civilized discussion about science and magic with one of those very same Fereldans. By that point, Dorian assumed he would be used to Cullen’s enchanting depths, but it was amazing how easily he was able to surprise him.

He was glad for it, though. There were few things he would rather take the time to grow comfortable with than learning all of Cullen’s hidden depths.

After riding all day, stopping early sounded absolutely divine. Closing the book and tucking it into his saddlebag, Dorian stretched his arms over his head, rocking his head from side to side to ease the tension from his neck. He’d been told horseriding was worse on the bottom than anything else, but all of his aching and pain had centered in his back and shoulders.

“If I have to look at this blighted beast for one more minute I might go mad,” Dorian grumbled. “All I can smell is horse.”

Cullen’s chuckle was enough to send a shiver over his skin. “Surely that’s an improvement on the stench of the rookery above you, day in and day out?” 

The inn appeared before them as the sun began to sink towards the mountains, the afternoon cut treacherously short by the looming peaks; as they trotted into the courtyard, a boy came running to take their horses, and Cullen dismounted with the ease that came from years of practice, wincing at the ache in his back and his knees. He tossed the boy a coin as he passed him the reins, and saw Dorian fiddling with his saddlebags as he attempted to dismount. No doubt he was just taking his time- Dorian rode with a grace that could only have come from years of precise tutoring, but still. He stopped beside him and put a hand on his knee, smiling up at him when Dorian’s head jerked around, startled at the unexpected physical contact. His eyes flitted from his hand to his face and back down to his hand, and he knew he was processing the familiarity of the gesture with his new found freedom after throwing off the last of his father’s shackles. 

Debating whether this was safe, whether a touch that implied intimacy was acceptable in public. Cullen waited patiently, his thumb rubbing softly back and forth on the inside of his knee. 

Finally Dorian nodded jerkily, a barely imperceptible movement, and Cullen felt himself relax a little at the approval. “Do you need help, my Lord?” he asked softly. 

Amazing, how _easily_ Cullen could tie him into knots. Dorian’s fingers itched to tangle in his hair as tightly as Cullen tangled up his insides, but he resisted the urge. Not because there might be eyes on them from the windows, but only because it interested him more to fold his fingers around Cullen’s and feel the electricity between them move through him.

“And here I’d always heard Fereldans were terribly uncultured and graceless,” Dorian said, tossing his leg over and dropping down with Cullen’s free hand moving- rather unconsciously, judging by his face- to his waist to steady him.

His foot caught in the stirrup, and he fell against Cullen with an undignified squawk; luckily the small weight of him not enough to send them both sprawling to the ground. Cullen caught him effortlessly, not even a grunt of exertion as he righted Dorian and slipped his hands to his hips.

Dorian flushed in embarrassment at his uncharacteristic clumsiness, and tried to cover the fumble the only way he knew how. A Tevinter never wasted an opportunity, after all.

“You’re so strapping, aren't you?” Dorian murmured, his hands smoothing over the front of the unmarked leathers Cullen wore instead of his more distinguished apparel; the thought had initially been to make themselves more inconspicuous as they’d approached Redcliffe, which Cullen’s giant furred pauldron was decidedly _not_ , but Dorian had to say he appreciated the way the leathers clung to his physique. “I’ve half a mind to trip more often.”

Cullen took a deep breath, his hands sliding around onto Dorian’s back almost subconsciously. The inn behind them was noisy, and the boy would be back any moment now to take Dorian’s horse into the stable too- but for the moment, they were relatively alone. 

“I would very much like to kiss you right now,” he said softly, swaying closer for a moment before steeling himself and holding back. “I realise we are very... exposed, out here, so if you say no, I will not be offended. If you need more time, I understand. But I thought...”

He licked his lips nervously. “I thought that I would ask.”

There was a rush of... Dorian couldn’t even begin to describe what he felt, so close to Cullen, looking into his eyes, feeling his breath against his lips... He was hesitant and afraid, but under that there was _excitement_ , a thrill that made his belly hot and his skin tight. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted to be touched.

He wanted to not care who might see.

With only the briefest of looks around him, Dorian gripped Cullen by his collar and pulled him closer to his mouth. “You’ve incredible luck, Commander,” Dorian said in a sultry whisper; that was what he told himself it was, anyway. Definitely _not_ a nervous murmur. “I very much want to be kissed.”

Cullen groaned softly and leaned in, far too eager and probably far too clumsy but _Maker_ he’d wanted to touch him for hours now, as comfort and as reassurance and as an affirmation that he wasn’t alone, that he was still here with him.

So when he lunged for his mouth, it was clumsy and almost bruising, nothing charming or teasing about it. It was simple and it was hard and he felt the world around them melt away as he closed his eyes and softened against him.

Things were so much simpler when there was heat, when there was hunger and teeth and hot breath and needing fingers finding all the right spots. Complications could arise when kisses softened, when hands softened, when Dorian curled his fingers under Cullen’s jaw and eased his thumbs in slow circles against his cheeks...

_Maker, but for once it felt like the right sort of want in him..._

Dorian broke the kiss, breathless, lips slightly swollen, laughter hidden against Cullen’s throat and apparently unaware that Cullen had just now decided that pushing him up against a wall and ravishing him would be a splendid plan. Cullen swallowed down the wave of lust, his hand coming up to run his fingers through Dorian’s hair as he tried to focus again past that intensely erotic fantasy and his body’s reaction to it.

There was a flicker of movement out of the corner of Dorian’s eye. The stable boy had returned to retrieve his horse, but if he cared at all about their embrace and the closeness of their bodies, he kept his thoughts to himself as he took the reins. He didn’t even stare. 

Fear nearly seized him, paralysed in Cullen’s arms as he waited for the look of disgust, but it never came; Cullen didn’t move either, his eyes very carefully watching his face for any clue that the moment might be too much for him. That, more than anything, made the fear slowly ease away to just a background annoyance but he beat it back, taking Cullen's hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Shall we, then?” Dorian asked. “I am just as eager to get out of these clothes as you are, amatus.”

For a moment Cullen’s heart skipped a beat- Maker, he _had_ noticed- and he pulled him to a stop just outside the front door. “Dorian,” he said urgently, “you know I would not take advantage of you at a time like this. We can just find ourselves a room and some supper, I would not ask anything more of you.” 

Dorian pressed his finger to Cullen’s lips. There had only been a handful of times in his life where he’d felt sure of himself- the morning he’d left Tevinter had been one of them, but even then there had been seeds, tendrils of unease. Here, now, looking into Cullen’s eyes, feeling his fingers tighten around his, he had never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Everything else can wait,” Dorian murmured. There was no smile, no laughter, no humor in his voice or eyes. There was plenty of naked want there, he imagined, and for once in his life he didn’t try to hide anything from a lover’s stare.

“I want you,” Dorian continued, leaning in close enough that their noses brushed against one another. “I don’t particularly care how I have you, amatus, but I want you.”

The unspoken ‘ _right now_ ’ hung in the air between them, whispering over Cullen’s skin and setting a fire in his belly; Cullen shivered fiercely. “If you are certain,” he said hesitantly. 

When Dorian said nothing to refute him, only staring at him with wild hunger in his eyes, he nodded slowly. “Alright then.”

And it felt _right_ to say that.

In somewhat of a daze, he kept Dorian’s hand tight in his as he entered the inn, crossing over to the worn and pitted bar to find the innkeeper; as a soldier, as a _commander_ , he should have paid attention to the room, he should have assessed the occupants and counted the exits and checked for threats, but... nothing registered in his head apart from the feel of Dorian’s fingers laced through his. 

He bartered with the innkeeper for the biggest room- the woman recognized them from their frequent trips through the area, and she seemed torn between wanting to curry favor with the Inquisition and wanting to haggle for the ridiculous prices she preferred to charge- and he didn’t have the patience to keep the charade up for long. In the end, he slapped two gold pieces down on the counter, vaguely amused by the way her eyes bugged out in surprised greed, and instructed her to lead them to the biggest room.

Dorian was smirking behind him, he could _feel_ it, and more than that he was occasionally running his fingers over his lower back, barely more than a whisper, just enough for him to know it was there and for him to know he was taunting him. Other than that he stayed silent, and Cullen tried not to go red at the heat of his gaze on the back of his neck. 

The innkeeper led them upstairs and to the end of the hallway, unlocking the door at the end and stepping aside. “I’ll have your bags brought up,” she began, “and supper-”

“We have all our travel bags,” Cullen blurted out, angling past her so that Dorian could slide into the room. “And just... leave supper on the floor outside the door. We’ll collect it later.”

“But messere-”

“No disturbances,” he said firmly, ignoring how his voice shook, and closed the door in her face. 

He turned around, half expecting Dorian to be pressed up behind him ready to pounce- his blood was surging at even the possibility of it- and instead blinked in surprise to find him already lounging back on the bed. The smoldering _come-hither_ look in his eyes made him shiver as he slipped closed the lock on the door. 

Despite the electric heat stirring under his skin, raising his temperature by the moment, Dorian rather enjoyed Cullen brusquely dealing with the innkeeper. There was something thrillingly powerful in knowing just how much he had worked the man up, to wear away his unflappable veneer.

“Oh, my,” Dorian purred, sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping out of his boots. “You’re quite tense, Commander. I wonder if there’s anything I could do to help you relax.”

His heart was beating hard, but he managed to keep his crooked smile as he leaned back on his elbows.

Cullen put his hand up to his mouth and pulled his glove off with his teeth, tossing it aside without thought. He did the same to the other as he crept closer to the bed, dropping to his knees in front of Dorian when he reached him. 

The blood was pounding so fiercely in his ears that it was a wonder Dorian couldn’t hear it. 

He took a shaky breath, running his hands up Dorian’s thighs almost reverentially. “I... I love you Dorian,” he said, his voice trembling. He could feel the heat of him, this close, and it made him shake with need. “But we don’t... I don’t want you to feel like- there’s no expectation tonight, or obligation. I just-”

He licked his lips. “I just want you to know... I mean, I just don’t want you to feel like you need to prove anything...” He laughed shakily, and ran a hand through his hair. “Maker, I’m making such a mess of this.”

Dorian thought of agreeing with him- he was overthinking things and worrying himself needlessly, but he was far too enamored with him to find that a fault of character. Cullen only wanted to see that he was taken care of, to not take advantage of his... admittedly fragile emotional state. Most men would have been in the middle of ravaging him, but there Cullen was, on his knees, more worried about Dorian’s emotional needs than getting him out of his clothes.

He moved closer to the edge of the bed, sliding his knees on either side of Cullen’s hips so that he could draw as close to him as possible; he pushed his fingers through Cullen’s curls, tilting his face up and pressing a kiss to his cheeks and brow and lips and chin.

Want, rather predictably, had become need.

Cullen was not simply someone who stirred his blood now; he _was_ his blood, his breath, his heart. Everything that he needed to live was there, kneeling and flushed and shivering in front of him.

“Amatus,” Dorian whispered. “Come closer please. I love- I need you.”

Cullen didn’t even stop to ask about the nickname- if Dorian was _ever_ going to tell him what it meant, it could come later. Instead, he threw his arms around his shoulders, rising up on his knees so that they were at a more even height as he crushed his mouth to his, kissing him until they were breathless, kissing him until his head was reeling and he was seeing stars. It was all hard need and teeth and hungry, nothing soft, only urgent, and he was gasping by the time he let Dorian pull back to breathe.

“I don’t-” He cut himself off, losing his nerve and instead kissing him again, almost tumbling him backwards onto the bed. After a moment of silently chastising himself, he broke away from the kiss again. “I don’t want- you deserve _better_ than a mattress stuffed with hay in some backwater inn,” he gasped, combing his fingers up through his hair, cupping his cheek, touching him wherever he could. His cock was already aching ferociously, uncomfortably confined in his leather breeches. “You should have... _silk_ , silk sheets, and- and _candles_ , and feather pillows, and... things like that.”

Dorian laughed, bunching his fingers into the front of his jerkin and dragging him onto the bed with him- was _that_ what was bothering him? Was _that_ honestly what was making him break their kiss and leave stars and flashes in Dorian's eyes, feeling like he was disappointing him somehow?

Maker, sometimes he could be the daftest man.

But he was also the sweetest man Dorian had ever known, and so he kept his voice soft, his touch softer, when he led Cullen’s hand down his body and pressed his palm against the strain of his cock against his pants.

“I _want_ \- I _need_ you," he said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts as Cullen fondled him. “Nothing has ever made more sense to me in my whole life. Nothing has... nothing has felt more right to me, Cullen, _please_.”

Cullen’s eyes darkened and he breathed out on a quiet groan, rubbing his palm up and down on Dorian’s hardness and watching his lip tremble with an unvoiced gasp, his eyelids drooping as if he wanted to close his eyes and drift away on the touch. 

_Yes._

Panting, his own hips rocking back and forth against Dorian’s, he said “I want- I want to make love with you. What do... Dorian, tell me what to do, _please_.”

_Make love._

Dorian’s stomach fluttered, fingers of warmth spreading through him. True, a lot of that heat had to do with Cullen’s massaging touch as he lay beside him, but the words were no small part of it either. No one had _ever_ said those words to him; he dared to say love had never entered into the picture at all, at least not for the men who had fucked him.

His smile became crooked, teasing, and he mounted Cullen’s hips in one smooth, fluid motion. Dorian pinned his wrists to the bed, his grip loose enough that Cullen could easily free his hands if he wished.

He could do more than _tell him_ what to do.

“I can show you just what I want, my darling,” Dorian whispered. “If you really need me to.”

Cullen nodded desperately, sucking air between his teeth. “I do, I do, please.” He hesitated again, squirming against his grip on him, fighting the urge to buck up teasingly. “I mean, I know what... I know what I’m doing I just- tell me what you want, I just... I want...”

He tipped his head back against the pillow, frustrated by his own babbling. “I want you to feel good,” he blurted out, rocking his hips up against Dorian. “You- you aren’t broken, Dorian. Please. Let me... tell me...”

_You aren’t broken, Dorian._

Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them back. Later he would tell Cullen that no one had ever told him that, that no one had ever made him feel like he was blessedly, wonderfully _whole_ before he had come into his life.

But now...

Maker, he wanted him- needed him, _craved him._

Dorian leaned down and kissed Cullen’s ear, tugging his lobe with his teeth as he lay flush against him. “Hush, love,” he quieted. “Let me show you.”

From Cullen’s ear, his lips and tongue and teeth moved down his jaw and stopped to tease at his throat. He bit gently over his pulse, feeling it throb faster when he ground himself against Cullen’s lap.

“I want to taste every inch of you,” Dorian whispered. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Cullen gasped, arching against him. “Dorian, _yes_.”

He squirmed against his hold, implying he wanted to pull his wrists free without really trying. “I should- I need to... _clothes_.”

Dorian clucked his tongue, sliding off of Cullen’s hips to help undress him. Cullen’s hands were useless, his fingers trembling too much to be of any use to either of them, and Dorian swatted his hands away gently, chuckling gently; he couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever genuinely laughed during sex before.

“Let me,” Dorian said. “Andraste’s tears, I think I have more experience with undressing you than you do, at this point.”

He congratulated himself on sounding so confident and self assured, but with every bit of leather armor and fabric that he removed, Dorian felt less and less in control of himself. All he wanted was to sink into Cullen, to sink so deep into him that he didn’t know where he began and where Cullen ended.

It had been a hellish few days, and all he wanted was to be alone with him, to exist in this moment with him forever.

“Maker,” he whispered, his voice trembling as Cullen lay naked before him. His fingers slid up his thighs and over his hips and stomach, dull nails dragging down when Cullen’s breath hitched. “Whoever gave you the right to be so beautiful?” Dorian asked.

Cullen was shaking with need, his skin too hot and too tight, his cock already aching and hard against his belly, a little bead of liquid atop it; he was squirming, _needy_ in a way that should have mortified him, but all that mattered right now was that Dorian was still fully dressed and that was _appalling_.

With a desperate whining growl, he put his hands up to Dorian’s shoulders and dragged him down, pulling him flush against him and wrapping his legs around him to pin him in place, kissing him with all the wild furious need he felt bubbling inside of him. Dorian’s chuckle against his mouth only made him more desperate, and he nipped at his lower lip. “I need you,” he growled against his mouth, gasping at Dorian’s hand sliding between them to tease at his cock. “I’ve not- I don’t... I haven’t done a lot of _this_ before, _Maker_ , Dorian _please_.”

Dorian rather enjoyed the way he begged, the way his skin shivered and his body vibrated. Cullen was usually so composed- Dorian was thrilled to see that composure break, to see him flushed and trembling and swearing and so hard Dorian was certain his pulse was stronger in his cock than anywhere else.

He was thrilled to know he'd been the one to make him so needing, so wanting, so desperately _hot_.

Dorian pressed the heel of his thumb in hard at the head of Cullen’s cock, his precome sticky and warm. With a smile that even he knew was devilish, Dorian slipped his slick thumb into Cullen’s mouth, feeling him groan around the digit while he busied his mouth biting and sucking his nipple.

“You _need_ me?” Dorian whispered, nipping at his budded flesh softly, teasingly. “That’s very... _unspecific_ , amatus.”

“You blasted unhelpful tease,” Cullen stuttered, sucking hard on Dorian’s thumb until he felt him shudder; that, at least, felt like a small victory. Dorian was so charming and domineering, so utterly in control, and Cullen felt so embarrassingly uncoordinated and needy in comparison. “You could at _least_ take your clothes off.”

Now that he mentioned it... Dorian did feel rather _confined_ in his clothes. He could feel his own wetness forming, and every move of his hips sent delightful shivers up his spine.

“You’re still sassing me, Commander,” Dorian said. “I expected better from you.”

Still, despite his ( _entirely_ playful) remonstrations, Dorian left a soft kiss against Cullen’s nipple, grinning when he jumped and whined at the contact with his bruised, bitten skin.

Dorian moved back onto his knees, balanced between Cullen’s legs; he took his hand and pulled Cullen up when he looked content enough to laze about and enjoy the view. “I trust you’ll help me,” he said with a grin, gesturing to his clothing. “I was kind enough to take care of you, after all.”

Cullen didn’t need to be told twice- Dorian still knelt between his legs, looking far too smug for his own good, and Cullen was desperate for closer contact with him. He reached up and tugged free his shirt, as if he meant to fumble about with the buckles and buttons on that first, but instead turned his attention to the laces on his breeches.

Dorian laughed, carding his fingers through his hair. “What are you-?”

He didn’t give him time to finish the question, loosening the fastenings just enough to pull his cock free; before Dorian could stop him, he lunged forward and took him into his mouth, his hands going up to his hips to hold him still while he sucked his cock as far into his mouth as he could without choking.

Dorian was moaning Cullen’s name before be could even process what exactly had happened. His fingers tangled tightly in Cullen’s hair, not quite sure if he meant to pull him nearer or push him back. The feel of his tongue, slick and soft on his pulsing cock, _Maker_...

“Mmn, you-” Dorian bit his lips when a particularly rough shiver forked through him, tightening his fingers in Cullen’s curls. “You- mm, _fuck_ , please, oh _Cullen._..”

_Stop_ , he meant to say, but he was addicted to the feel of him, in love with the way he looked when he tipped his face up to watch him as he sucked on him. “Don’t stop,” Dorian whispered, rocking his hips against his face. “ _Please_ , amatus.”

How quickly the tables had turned against him- Dorian might have been annoyed if he wasn’t so incredibly fucking turned on.

Cullen sucked hard around him, stroking him with his tongue as he slid up and down on his length; he tried not to gag with Dorian’s thrusting, adjusting to the rhythm a moment later and humming around him to get back at him. 

He slid his hands under the waist of his breeches, trying his best to ease them down over his hips without breaking away.

Dorian raked his nails up Cullen’s back, loving the shape of him, the glorious strength, the way the muscles bunched in his back when he shifted. Honestly, Dorian had seen works of art that paled in comparison to Cullen, and he said so as his nails dragged over his shoulder blades and traced over the freckles on his shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful,” Dorian panted. “Maker’s breath, _Cullen_....”

He wasn’t at the edge just yet, but if Cullen kept doing what he was doing with his tongue...

“Mmnn, love, if you don’t stop I’ll-”

With a wet popping noise, Cullen pulled away from his cock, licking at his lips as he panted for air, licking at the tip of Dorian’s cock as it bobbed in front of his nose. “Or you’ll what?” he asked, with more boldness than he thought himself possible of, but amused by the frazzled look on Dorian’s previously smug face.

With only aftershocks of pleasure bolting through him, it was a bit easier to gather his thoughts and keep himself focused. Which made it easier in turn to be less affected by Cullen’s teasing, and return his playful, cheeky smile with one of his own.

“Or I’ll fill that smart mouth of yours,” Dorian whispered hotly, bending down a bit to cup Cullen’s face and kiss him roughly.

He broke their kiss as abruptly as he started it, pushing Cullen backwards with a teasing laugh.

Cullen found himself laughing breathlessly as he lay back and he watched Dorian jerk his shirt up and off, tossing it to the far side of the room almost in annoyance. He reached up a hand to run his fingers over his belly, pressing his palm flat against the silky smooth skin and the faint dusting of dark hair, laughing more when Dorian scowled and batted his hand aside.

“Am I not allowed to enjoy the sights?” he teased, watching as Dorian shoved his breeches down and fought to get out of them without leaving the bed, or losing the upper hand. It occurred to Cullen a dumbstruck moment later that technically he’d never seen Dorian fully naked before, only mostly naked, and the teasing smile froze on his lips, the hunger in him pausing for a moment in immense awe at the beauty of him. There was barely a mark on his beautiful brown skin, soft like velvet while the steely muscles danced beneath, and he could have been carved from stone, so perfect was he. Cullen ran his hands up his thighs with a shaky breath, near to incredulous with how exquisite he was. 

He lifted his eyes to his, all traces of teasing gone. “Maker,” he whispered, and he didn’t know what else to say other than “I love you, Dorian.”

The reverence in his voice made Dorian feel as though he was being prayed to. Had Cullen ever spoken to a lover in such a hushed, worshipful tone before? And if he had, how long had it been? How long since he had wanted to pray at the hollow of someone’s throat and make their body his safe, sacred temple?

How long since someone had said his name in the same voice, and made him feel like he was worth something more than blood and battle and raised steel? How long since someone had whispered to him with enough feeling to make him weak?

Kaffas, but he loved him.

Dorian moved his palms up Cullen’s thighs and cupped his hips, his heart beating slower and steadier than it ever had when he was this naked and this turned on.

But when he spoke, he didn't want there to be a reason for it to tremble.

“Cullen,” Dorian sighed, like he was releasing some burden. Which, in truth, he was.

He hadn’t been supposed to fall in love. Everything his father had taught him had forbade it; if he was dutiful, if he was good, if he was quiet...

If he lived his life screaming on the inside.

“I love you, too,” Dorian said finally. And then again, with his mouth pressed against Cullen’s hip.

And again, with his lips hot on his belly. Once it was out of him, once the words were there, it was impossible not to keep saying them, to delight in the euphoric rush that came with kissing each word to his skin like a brand.

“ _I love you._ ”

Cullen squirmed under his mouth, running his fingers through Dorian's hair until it was a delightful mess; he felt giddy, lighter than he’d ever been, and he was overcome with the need to giggle as Dorian kissed and teased his way lower. Never before had he felt so urgent and so needy and yet so relaxed and amused- Dorian set him alight with sensations and passion and joy, and his heart sang to hear those three little words whispered back.

He sighed, need making him writhe, and he arched his back ever so slightly from the bed, pushing himself more firmly against Dorian’s kisses.

Dorian paused and glanced up the length of his body to make eye contact, and the smile they shared was like a wildfire seeping through him. He was _beautiful_. Not just his body, either, though Dorian was rather distracted by the way he moved and the way the low lantern light played across his skin...

But deeper than that, he was the loveliest man Dorian had ever known. There was such honesty and integrity and goodness in his heart; so much kindness and tenderness and sweetness in his eyes and in his touch... If Dorian’s faith in the Maker had ever wavered, Cullen was all the proof he needed that He existed.

Of course, Dorian couldn’t say all of that right _now_ , not with his mouth teasing the groove of Cullen’s hip. He wanted to tease him more, to amp up Cullen’s excitement and turn up his temperature and make him tremble; but he only had so much self control, and he wanted to taste him.

Dorian peppered soft, open mouthed kisses against Cullen’s cock, flicking his eyes up to him as he reached the head and slowly swiveled his tongue over his leaking tip.

Cullen gasped, his head falling back against the pillows. “Dorian,” he moaned, his feet digging into the rough mattress. “ _Please_.”

He was so magnificent in his neediness; Dorian wanted to slide against him skin to skin, he wanted to feel him writhe and squirm and rut in his arms and between his thighs, and he just wanted all of him.

“ _Dorian_.”

“I know my name, love,” Dorian teased, nipping gently at his cock, letting his breath rush hotly over him as he lapped eagerly at the head, catching every glistening drop with his tongue. “Wouldn’t you rather tell me what you want me to do?”

The teasing was short lived. He was as desperate as Cullen, and when his lips were around him and he had his cock at the back of his throat, he felt as much shuddering hunger as Cullen. With a whine that was muffled by Cullen’s throbbing length, Dorian rocked his hips against the straw mattress, the sensation rough against his cock, but... not entirely unpleasant.

His fingers curled at Cullen’s hips, and when Cullen was sufficiently turned on- panting and whining and gasping and grabbing at the bed and Dorian and his own burning skin- Dorian moved his hands down to cup behind his knees.

He was spread open, and Dorian’s wet mouth moved from his cock to kiss lower, breath brushing against his entrance as he licked his finger and gently eased inside of him, stopping at his first knuckle to gauge his readiness. Cullen cried out, feet scrambling at the sheets and at his back.

“Do you want more?” Dorian nearly panted.

Cullen’s head rolled from side to side, panting and bucking his hips against Dorian’s mouth, and as his tongue was replaced with a finger he sobbed, fingers twisting in tight to the bed. “Yes, yes, Maker,” he stuttered, the sob trailing off on a wail as Dorian pressed in a little harder. “Ahh, _Dorian_ , p-please, careful, _ah_ -”

_Careful._

Dorian took in a steadying breath, trying to calm himself, to keep himself from diving into Cullen and never coming up for air. But he tasted so good, and he _looked_ so good, and Dorian was suddenly and intensely _very_ impatient.

Dorian whispered a word against his skin, and when he felt the magic settle and take hold he dove into him, licking at him and pressing his thighs further apart to bury his head further between them, fucking him slowly and opening him up with his tongue and fingers. His lips tingled with the touch of the magic, and he moved his mouth to the inside of Cullen's thigh when he was slick enough around his pushing fingers.

His cock was hard and pulsing against his stomach, and he whined softly with discomfort as he rolled his hips against the mattress.

Gasping, panting, almost lost in a sea of sensations, Cullen nonetheless felt the faint sizzle of magic in the air, the whisper of it over his skin, and he tensed, a lifetime of vigilance kicking into gear.

He was so vulnerable, splayed open while Dorian teased him, naked and weak and unarmed and there was a voice there, in his head, warning him, because he was _too_ vulnerable and _too_ exposed and if there was magic-

“Shhh.” Dorian rubbed comfortingly at his thigh, his mouth moving away from his ass; his eyes were shining and his lips were glistening with something slick, and Cullen whimpered greedily despite the little wiggle of fear in him. “It’s just a little something to make things easier for you, I promise. Do you trust me?”

Cullen whimpered as Dorian crawled up the length of him, pressing slick kisses against his skin, before he coaxed him into lying on his side with gentle murmurs and careful hands; when he was hot and flush against him, his back pressed tight to Dorian’s chest, he thought he was about to burst into flames. “I...” Dorian’s hand played over his stomach and lower, fingers teasing at his cock while his thigh slid between Cullen’s legs and eased him open again. He could feel the burning hot length of his cock, pressed into his lower back, and when he shivered, Dorian was there, kissing his neck gently, just a hint of teeth scraping over the skin. “I trust you.”

Dorian kissed his ear, nipping softly at the lobe as he reached between their bodies and pressed his cock against Cullen’s opening. “I love you,” he whispered, his skin tingling as the words rumbled through his chest. “I love you, I love you.”

He eased into him, pausing when Cullen tensed and whimpered, and pushing deeper when he relaxed again. The tight, hot feel of him squeezing at his cock made Dorian’s vision blur and stomach shiver. There was an itch under his skin, the needling desire to fuck him raw until he was begging and breathless and bucking, but Dorian resisted his baser urges and enjoyed the feel of Cullen around his cock and under his hands.

Gently, Dorian nibbled at Cullen's shoulder, fingers closing around his cock and stroking with the motion he began to set with his hips. The first long pull back and push in had them both groaning, and Cullen’s breathing was shallow as Dorian repeated the motion, filling him slowly before pulling out again.

“Maker,” Dorian breathed against Cullen’s skin, light-headed with need, moaning with every subtle tremor in Cullen’s body that made his ass squeeze a little tighter around his cock. “You feel amazing.”

Cullen turned his head, the angle awkward but enough so that he could capture Dorian’s mouth with his, kissing him needily and whimpering with every thrust, his hand on Dorian’s hip as an anchor and a guide. The first time Dorian thrust firmly enough to rub against the sensitive place within him, his response was electric, crying out and bucking back against him almost in surprise.

“I thought you said you’d done this before,” Dorian panted, thrusting a little harder to make him lose control again. 

“I didn’t say- _ah!_ ” Whenever Dorian managed to stroke him with his cock, he cried out, pressing his ass back a little harder against him, his hips bucking a little less smoothly with the motion of his hands.

Dorian was _everywhere_ \- every scent, every taste, every nerve ending in his body sang in glorious, heated bliss at his touch. 

“ _Dorian_ ,” he rasped, reaching up behind him and digging his fingers into his hair, “Dorian, ahh love, Dorian, _yes_.”

With Cullen’s enthusiasm taken to be an encouragement, Dorian let the itch under his skin for more, faster, harder, finally have its way.

Every noise from him was desperate, guttural, almost bestial, and he muffled them with Cullen’s skin as he fucked him, teeth and lips scraping over his shoulder and his throat and his mouth when he could reach it. His strokes along Cullen’s cock were as frantic as the rhythm of his hips, and when he angled his thrusts to send Cullen over the edge he could feel the tension in his cock soar as he neared the edge.

All he wanted was for this to last forever; this closeness and heat and intimacy- the feel of Cullen’s fingers tight in his hair, the feel of his body warm and slick and tight around and against him, the taste and smell of him...

“Fasta vass,” Dorian swore, almost a sob against Cullen’s shoulder as he bucked wildly into him, fucking him, lost in him, _making love_. “Amatus, _yes!_ ”

With a strangled, almost hysterical cry, Cullen felt his body seize up in pleasure and he arched back against him in one jerky, shuddering motion, the cry bleeding out onto a sob as he came, his seed splashing hotly against his belly and into Dorian’s hand. His toes curled and his head fell back, the orgasm snatching his breath away entirely as he tried to suck in the air he needed to call his name. 

Instead he could only dig his fingers in tighter to his hair, gasping and sobbing as Dorian’s hips slammed against him and pushed his pleasure onwards; his cock pulsed almost painfully as he whimpered at the rhythm of Dorian’s hand, spilling yet more over them both. 

Dorian’s hand slipped to Cullen’s hip, gripping him painfully tight. He was slick with sweat and his own come, and Dorian’s fingers slipped over his skin and dug in held him open and thrust into him.

Cullen relaxed back against him and pushed his ass into each thrust, panting delightedly at Dorian’s frenzied moans; with every stroke inside of him he tried to tense his muscles in response, squeezing him tighter.

Dorian cried out and moved his hips faster, shivering and gasping. The edge was there, a sweet promise that nearly vibrated under his skin and through his bones. He was so close, so close-

“I love you,” Dorian rasped. He was addicted to the sound of it now, addicted to the slight shiver that moved through Cullen when he said the words. Addicted, too, at the way Cullen said it back, panting the words as Dorian bucked and rutted and-

He pulled out of him, swearing against his shoulder as he spilled himself over Cullen’s ass. Dorian shuddered, a sobbing noise tightening his throat as he gripped Cullen with his free hand and rocked against him, his cock pressed against his lower back as he shuddered and spent himself.

When he’d settled slightly, with only small aftershocks of pleasure and soft gasps, Dorian laughed weakly against Cullen’s ear. “Aren’t you happy we decided to do this before we bathed, amatus?”

Dorian’s breathless laughter against his hair made his own panting turn to chuckles too, and then they were both laughing stupidly, limp limbed and boneless as Cullen gracelessly turned a little more- he tried not to wince thinking about the sheets and the mess he was smearing across them- so that he could face him a little easier, kissing him in between gulps of air. If anyone had asked him, he couldn’t necessarily say what it was that was so funny, or why the two of them were so lost to fits of laughter, but... it felt good to laugh. It felt good to laugh with _Dorian_ , the two of them exhausted and sticky and spent, and he couldn’t think of anything right in that moment that he could possibly have wanted more. 

At some point their giggles eased, slowing and giving them a chance to breathe and settle their heart rates, and Cullen found himself rubbing his hand almost absently in circles over Dorian’s hip, while Dorian’s fingers stroked languidly at his cheek. It was, apart from the mess they’d made on each other, an absurdly perfect moment. 

“Dorian,” he murmured, nuzzling at him, “what does amatus mean?”

The question caught him off guard, but Dorian supposed he’d kept Cullen in the dark long enough. It had been fun teasing him, but he was in no teasing mood now. Exhausted, relaxed, so madly in love with him that he couldn’t even remember his life before Cullen had entered it; Dorian smiled and lifted Cullen’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against his wrist.

His father had never wanted this for him. And that, more than anything, showed how cruel he was.

“My love,” Dorian whispered. “It means my love.”

He was breathing a little more evenly now, but at Dorian’s whisper he felt his heart flutter a little in his chest. He rubbed his nose against Dorian’s, shifting a little closer so that he could ghost a kiss over his lips.

“But you’ve been calling me that since the night of the storm,” he said, a smile creeping over his face. “You were trying to be sneaky.”

Dorian’s hand moved up to cup Cullen’s face, his thumb moving in slow circles over his bottom lip. They were close, true, but he wanted them closer. His stomach shivered as he pressed nearer, not an inch separating them now.

He returned the spectre of Cullen’s kiss with something more tangible, his lips tingling.

“Trying?” Dorian asked, his smile crooked as his hands moved lower and settled at the small of Cullen's back. “I’d say I succeeded, wouldn’t you agree, amatus?”

“I’m not going to agree to anything that will inflate your ego any more than it already is,” Cullen murmured, kissing him back. He smiled against his mouth. “It is good to hear you say it though.”

He really ought to get up and get clean, before they ruined the bed anymore than they already had, before the stickiness on his chest grew hard and set and became uncomfortable to scrub out of the hair on his belly, but...

“I love you, Dorian,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what your father thinks, or the rest of your family, or what anyone else thinks about you or us or... _this_.”

He kissed him, slow and soft and gentle. “I love you,” he finished softly. “Just like this.”

Tears pricked his eyes, but his smile remained as he tipped his head forward and rested his brow against Cullen’s.

“I love you, too, amatus,” Dorian whispered.

Nothing mattered but the two of them. Whatever his father had wanted for him, this was what Dorian had _chosen_.

_Who_ he’d chosen.

And who had chosen _him_.


End file.
